Two Guests

Lynch was a little puzzled. He had only paid for the advertisement in the Investigator newspaper yesterday; theoretically, it wouldn't make today's print and would appear tomorrow at the earliest.

Therefore, Lynch had not planned on seeing clients for the next few days. By his estimate, it would take at least five or six days before a client showed up at his door.

However, the moment he saw the client Mrs. Maggie brought upstairs, he understood immediately. It was someone he recognized—the elderly woman from the bakery in the square, Mrs. Sterling.

She had probably asked Mrs. Maggie when she went grocery shopping earlier, having learned his address when he bought bread that morning, and Mrs. Maggie had then spread word of his profession.

Well, that was fine too; it served as free advertising. Unfortunately, the demographic it reached left much to be desired.

The financial standing of clients in the King District was hardly something to look forward to, and he had just resolved to earn more money... Oh well. How could he turn away the very first client who came knocking? He might as well hear what she had to say first.

Mrs. Sterling was a lean, dark-complexioned woman in her fifties, dressed in a coarse cloth gown and a yellowed white apron. She smelled entirely of freshly baked bread. Sitting stiffly on the sofa, she completely lacked the vigor she usually displayed standing behind her bread cart.

Since he had decided to receive her properly, there was no need to put on an attitude of disdain. Lynch personally poured the old woman a cup of black tea, then sat across from her, opened his notebook, and flipped to a fresh page.

May 17, 1399, 17:00, Mrs. Sterling.

“So, Mrs. Sterling, please relax. If sitting here makes you too nervous, we can go downstairs and talk while standing in front of your bread cart; I imagine that might put you more at ease. Hahaha, no need? In that case, just take it easy, have some tea, and tell me about your granddaughter. Her name is...”

“Janet. Her name is little Janet Sterling,” the old woman said in a low voice, her tension easing considerably. “She's thirteen this year and still attending primary school.”

The citizens of the Kingdom of Lande placed quite a high value on education. In recent decades especially, the proportion of people who had received four years of primary education was quite high. However, their ages varied widely; some children only began primary education at the age of ten. Little Janet was likely one of those late enrollees.

“Which school?”

“Gray Fog District Municipal Primary School.”

The old woman straightened her back proudly. Lynch remembered that municipal primary schools had decent reputations; back in his original world, it would probably count as a key primary school.

“Mm, please go on. What happened to her?”

“She was fine before, but over the past five or six days, she's often sat staring blankly at the doorway after coming home from work. Sometimes she curls up as if frightened out of her wits, but whenever we ask, she says nothing is wrong. Her parents and I didn't pay much attention at first, thinking it was just a child's moodiness—just daydreaming, you know? But gradually, the situation grew worse and worse. Not only does she sleepwalk at night and draw strange patterns, but she's also getting thinner and weaker.”

“Wait a moment. What did you just say she was doing? Coming home from work?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“No, nothing.”

Mrs. Sterling's matter-of-fact reply made Lynch realize that he had subconsciously applied the customs of his previous life to this world. At best, this era corresponded to the eighteenth century of his hometown. It was common for children from poor families to enter factories at twelve or thirteen, attending school in the morning and working in the afternoon. At that age, they weren't even considered child laborers anymore.

“So, you want me to investigate what's wrong with the child?”

“Yes, Mr. Detective. Janet is the cleverest child in the Sterling family; nothing can happen to her. We're worried sick, but you know... in the King District, hardly anyone is willing to help us. When Mrs. Hudson mentioned what you do just now, I thought I'd give it a try with you.”

Lynch nodded with a frown, writing down the detailed description. Judging by his book-learned experience, the child was likely just suffering a mental breakdown from excessive stress—just like the little-mustached man in the classic Modern Times—having nothing to do with supernatural incidents. This did not align with his expectation of exclusively taking on mystery-related cases.

It felt like a losing deal, Lynch sighed inwardly, but still said, “It's hard to say what happened to little Janet right now. She might just be ill, which would fall outside the scope of my commission. I'd suggest consulting the priests and sisters at the Hall of Suffering. However... how about this: bring her over tomorrow afternoon so I can see her. If that's inconvenient, I can pay a visit to your home. There are some things I can only assess after meeting the person in question.”

Mrs. Sterling beamed with joy and thanked him repeatedly, rubbing her hands together with a self-conscious smile. “Mr. Detective, about the payment...”

“Let's see the child first tomorrow. We can talk about compensation once I'm sure I can solve it.” Just as Lynch was about to close his notebook, a question suddenly struck him. “Which factory does she work at?”

“Grant Screw Factory.”

“Oh.” Lynch jotted it down casually. Halfway through writing, his pen abruptly stopped, and he looked up. “Which factory? Grant Screw Factory?”

“Yes, Mr. Detective, that's the name.”

“The factory belonging to Chairman Grant of the House of Commons?”

“Yes, you know of it too? It's a very famous, large factory.” The smile on Mrs. Sterling's face deepened, looking rather honored.

“I see. Then bring the child over tomorrow.”

Calmly finishing recording all of Mrs. Sterling's information, Lynch closed his notebook. He politely escorted the old woman out of the living room, then returned to the window and watched her push her bread cart into the evening crowd until she vanished.

Any prior contempt in his heart had been utterly shattered by the name Grant Screw Factory.

Mrs. Sterling's arrival made Lynch realize that he had overlooked a crucial point. If he wanted to investigate the connection between Chairman Grant and the railway case, he didn't necessarily have to trace the clues step by step from the railway incident to the chairman. A reverse investigation was also an angle, and the screw factory was naturally the best breakthrough point. He could take advantage of this commission to investigate it.

Should he ask Officer Natalie to help?

After hesitating for a moment, Lynch decided against informing her for now. He had to learn to face the mysterious world independently; he couldn't hide behind her forever.

The likelihood of this commission involving the supernatural was minuscule, making it perfect for someone like him, who lacked combat prowess, to hone his independent investigative skills. Even if he did encounter the occult, his abilities were best suited for slipping away quietly.

Then he would just accept it—hm?

Another knock sounded at the door behind him. Turning around, he saw Mrs. Maggie standing at the door with a strange expression. “Mr. Levive, you have a letter. It was delivered just now.”

Lynch's heart tightened, immediately thinking of the letter the mastermind had sent to the previous landlord. “Hm? Who delivered it?”

“I don't know. It was slipped under the crack of the door. When I opened the door, there was no one in sight.”

Lynch frowned, put on gloves, and opened the envelope.

It was high-grade stationery carrying a faint scent of lavender, giving a pleasant impression.

Unfolding the letter, a blue theater ticket slipped out. Several lines of pleasing, small script written in ornate cursive appeared before Lynch's eyes. The handwriting was graceful and delicate, clearly belonging to an elegant lady.

Lynch did not recognize the name, but he recognized what was underneath it.

Beneath the name was a lifelike drawing of a pair of cat eyes, accompanied by a cat paw sketched in a slightly minimalist style.

Stirred by a sudden thought, Lynch turned to look out the window.

A black cat lay sprawled atop a building across the street. Licking its paw at Lynch, it stretched lazily before disappearing into the crowd.

Did I wake up too fast, or do cats in this world actually know how to write letters?