Liam Moore sat like a fixed painting amidst the raucous, noisy crowd. His thoughts were entirely with Jane Osmond, who was upstairs.
Why? Even though he prided himself on knowing everything, he couldn’t figure it out. A brief mystery.
The n, red-faced from drinking, laughed loudly, pounded their knees, and sprawled on the armchairs. Their mood was entirely different from his, who remained silent throughout.
He looked down at his glass. It appeared to be from a high-end brand, but it was actually a cheap imitation. The engraving was crooked, and the finish was rough. The rim was so thin that it would undoubtedly crack if his teeth hit it wrong. It was as crude as Jas Stranden. He hadn’t intended to think about his old schoolmate this way, but it happened.
His eyes saw much. If there was a God, he must have taken great care when making Liam’s sharp eyes.
What did these eyes see?
Take Philip, for example. His hands shook throughout their conversation, a common sign among addicts.
Philip joked about being an alcoholic, claiming the drink tasted sweet like honey after a long period of abstinence. But this wasn’t true.
He wasn’t interested in his drink; the glass he poured remained untouched. An alcoholic, especially one who had abstained, would lose control in such a convivial atmosphere, yet Philip had taken only a few sips before setting his glass down. Alcohol was off the table.
He didn’t react to pipe smoke, so he wasn’t trying to quit smoking. That left few possibilities. For the upper class (and even the lower class) in England, opium was readily accessible.
Despite declarations from many in the British Empire to eradicate the drug casting a shadow over society, opium had long been prevalent in London. Like an ant’s nest, once one spot was discovered, it would hide elsewhere. Liam had once infiltrated an opium den while chasing such people, witnessing a hellscape with an entrance but no exit. Thus, they called these places dens.
Poor Philip was an opium addict.
His lips and nails were blue. Constantly wiping his cold sweat with a handkerchief and rembering his cold, clammy handshake, Liam concluded Philip’s addiction had been progressing for so ti.
Philip muttered a few more tis before leaving. Liam had a good idea why he left.
Now Jas’s head was about to hit the floor, nodding off and greeting the air as if his neck might snap. Watching this, Liam thought it was a good ti to excuse himself. Jas Stranden would only rember drinking together, fulfilling Liam’s role as a friend of the groom. Thus, he put down his glass and rose, using his intoxication as an excuse. No one stopped him; there was no one to stop him.
As he scratched his head a couple of tis and rolled his stiff shoulders, a woman’s piercing scream echoed through the mansion. His slight intoxication instantly vanished. The retired officer who had been drinking with him also jumped up, showing his soldierly instincts in response to a human cry.
Jas, startled awake by the loud noise, groggily asked, “What’s going on?” But Liam had no mind to answer.
Jane!
His head knew Jane Osmond’s voice wasn’t that high-pitched. Jane was more likely to hit soone than scream.
But there were few won in this mansion, so if the gods of probability played a strange trick, Jane could also be in danger.
Another scream echoed through the mansion.
The tipsy feeling was gone. Sober, they all ran out of the study. Jas grabbed a passing maid and asked loudly, “Did you hear that scream?”
The maid, looking bewildered, asked, “A scream, sir?”
Her expression, as if she were looking at a madman, made everyone exchange glances.
“Didn’t you hear two screams just now?”
“I’ve been cleaning here the whole ti. I didn’t hear any screams. If soone had scread twice, everyone in the mansion would have co running!”
“So, you’re saying I imagined it? Liam, you say sothing!”
But Liam Moore heard nothing. He felt as if the ground was lting beneath his feet. Then he began to run. He had no ti to pay attention to the shouts from behind.
＊＊＊
Liam Moore burst in.
The ever-buttoned-up man, always wearing a tie, had two buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Even his usually neat hair was slightly mussed, looking almost pressed down. I was so used to his smooth, well-grood face that I was startled by this sight.
He looked like a man who had visited while severely drunk, muttering “Moore” repeatedly, almost like a madman.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. Was he really out of his mind?
He had co into the room, gripping the doorknob as if collapsing, bending over and breathing heavily. His shoulders heaved visibly. He had clearly rushed here.
But why?
He stood nailed to the doorway for a while, so I finally had to prompt him by calling his na.
“…Liam?”
Only then did Liam Moore, with his pale face, lift his head. His face was stricken with fear.
“Jane.”
Correction. His pale face showed both relief and fear.
As usual, Liam Moore wouldn’t tell anything. I knew that. We stood there, exchanging bewildered looks, frozen like stuffed animals. He was choosing his words, but I knew he wouldn’t reveal any truths to .
I had long noticed his odd inconsistencies. Through Lucita’s loving advice, I had naturally inferred that he was hiding sothing from .
Ah. I had never felt more directly that secrets could poison a relationship.
His eyes dropped. I naturally looked down, avoiding his fear and inexplicable relief. I didn’t know what expression he was making, but I felt I shouldn’t know.
I pulled a shawl over my shoulders, covering myself tightly before I heard Liam Moore’s voice. It was surprisingly steady given his disheveled appearance.
“I heard a woman’s scream, and I thought you were in danger.”
“What danger could I be in here?”
“Well, there’s a drug addict, and I suspect there might be a murder suspect among us who killed Justin Besson… Besides, it’s not bad to be overly cautious about danger.”
A drug addict? A murderer and a drug addict, just a gathering of the like-minded.
Perhaps because of Alia Jokins’s story, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from becoming caustic.
I blinked away my negative emotions and turned my head. A calm, yet sharp expression, typical of Jane Osmond, settled on my face. I didn’t have to try hard for that. I quipped at him.
“So you suddenly barged into a lady’s room?”
Liam flinched at this. He took a step back as if he realized his intrusion.
Enough. Why pretend now? It felt absurd, but I kicked a chair across from . The chair at the tea table slid silently. Liam Moore hesitated, then finally walked over with slumped shoulders.
“Anyway, I had sothing to discuss with you, so this is good timing.”
“Say whatever you like.”
He looked cooperative, folding his hands and turning his gaze to as if trying to make up for his rudeness.
Seated, he no longer looked like the drunkard he had seed. His hair was still ssy, but his disheveled clothes were now completely in order. He looked ready to listen to .
Well, then I could discuss this surreal situation with him (even if I had to risk being treated like a mad person).
I hoped Liam Moore was less rational than I was. That his sensibility and ethics would take precedence over common sense. That he was a just person and felt disgust for those who had touched the forbidden territory of murder.
I confessed.
“Jas Stranden already had a wife.”
And I imdiately muttered a silent curse.
Liam Schofield Moore, you damned bastard.
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