"Yes, but those reports of serial killings seem to be happening elsewhere in the kingdom. That's all a long way from us."
Jenkins agreed wholeheartedly with the driver. Nolan City already had its share of Cursed Items, evil gods, cultists, and even transmigrators; it didn't need so midnight slasher thrown into the mix.
"I heard the victim who was in the hospital disappeared last evening. Didn't even pay his full bill. The coppers watching him are in for it now. Ha, I don't believe for a second he just walked out of there on his own, not with injuries that bad..."
The driver tugged on the reins as he spoke, slowing the horse.
"Wait, who did you just say went missing?"
Jenkins had read the newspaper reports on the murder several tis today, and he was certain he hadn't seen anything about that.
"The victim from that street murder case in the papers."
The driver glanced back at Jenkins, a strange look on his face, seemingly puzzled by his surprise. "The officers were in my carriage this morning on their way back to the station, and they were arguing the whole ti. I an, I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but they were shouting so loud..."
This business with ordinary crooks and con n should have had nothing to do with him; he had only looked into it yesterday out of sheer curiosity. He'd thought it was rely a coincidence, but the disappearance of Robert Kunbu deepened his suspicions.
He mulled over the recent events that had unfolded around him and decided it was better to be safe than sorry. This business warranted further investigation.
But for now, his job was to escort this shipnt to the estate of Viscount Augustus.
The estate was a dilapidated place, nothing like Jenkins had imagined. It was already autumn, and an elderly butler crunched through a courtyard carpeted with fallen leaves to open the gate for the carriage.
The two iron gates swung outward, their bars rusted a sickly black-yellow. A broken chain lay discarded to the side, coiled in the leaves like a black serpent.
The grounds were vast, but the areas once designated for manicured gardens had beco a chaotic tangle of overgrown weeds and vines. On either side of the drive leading to the main house, rows of trees stretched out gnarled branches, their twisted shapes resembling the crooked fingers of an old witch from a fairy tale.
"The Viscount has only just moved in. We haven't had a chance to tidy the grounds yet."
The old butler offered the explanation as he directed two wiry manservants to unload two large crates from the carriage. With trembling hands, he counted out a few crumpled banknotes to pay the driver, then led the way up the steps.
The great doors to the hall groaned as the old butler pushed them open with so effort. The first thing Jenkins noticed was a massive oil painting hanging directly opposite the entrance. It was coated in such a thick layer of dust that it was impossible to discern the color of the clothes worn by the vibrant, cane-wielding old gentleman in the portrait.
The air was thick with the damp, musty sll characteristic of old houses. It didn't feel entirely deserted, however, likely because servants were bustling about, busy with their cleaning.
Thankfully, the vast front hall had been cleared out. Old tables and chairs had been pushed against the walls, and a damp, rotting carpet had been removed, leaving a clean patch of floor. The butler directed the manservants to inspect the goods right there.
"My apologies for the state of things, Mr. Williams. Viscount Augustus is in poor health. He was convalescing in the country and has only recently moved back to Nolan."
The old butler looked ashad; anyone would be embarrassed to have a guest see the house in such a state.
"It's quite all right. I believe I've heard of this estate before. It's the Augustus family's ancestral ho, isn't it?"
It wasn't that he had simply "heard." Papa Oliver had done a bit of research on the buyer, since not just anyone could co up with such a large sum of money. The investigation revealed that Viscount Augustus was perfectly ordinary. He was a 42-year-old widower, his wife having passed away when he was 30, and he had never remarried. The estate had been built over two hundred years ago as a sumr retreat for the Augustus of that generation—no, not a Viscount, a Marquis.
As the Augustus family's fortunes declined, their numbers dwindled, and for various reasons, their title had fallen to that of a viscount. All of this was easily verifiable public record; nothing seed amiss. There were many such ancient families, like the infamous demon-summoning Ashiash family, which was currently a primary target of investigation. ℞άŊồ𝐁Ɛȿ
"Yes. The master was feeling nostalgic for the place he grew up, so he returned. Please, have a seat. I'll have them open the crates."
The old man nodded, clearly not intending to continue the conversation.
Inspecting the contents of two large crates was no simple task. The old butler prepared so tea and refreshnts for Jenkins while he waited, and after a while, Viscount Augustus himself appeared.
He was a frail-looking middle-aged man with a haggard face, bundled in a heavy woolen coat.
Jenkins could see he was in low spirits, but the Viscount insisted on speaking with him for a mont.
"Baron Williams. It is an honor to et you."
He extended a hand, and as they shook, Jenkins took the opportunity to observe him. An ordinary man.
"Viscount Augustus, good morning. Oh, you're aware that my title is honorary?"
He deliberately stressed the word "honorary," and the viscount gave a gentle laugh.
"Yes. If you dislike the title, then I shall call you 'Mr. Williams.' You may not be aware, but every noble in Nolan has heard how Duke Douglas Gerrod himself ca all the way from Bel Diran to bestow the title of baron upon a great author."
"An honorary baron."
Jenkins insisted.
"Very well. An honorary... ahem, cough, cough... an honorary baron. My apologies, I'm not in the best of health."
He waved a hand dismissively at Jenkins as he muffled the coughs with a white handkerchief.
This was no simple flu or cold. From the sound of it, there was sothing wrong with his lungs.
Could it be pneumonia?
Jenkins raised his teacup to mask his unease, making a ntal note to look up a few disease-warding rituals when he got back.
"My apologies, my apologies."
The viscount crumpled the handkerchief into a ball and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his coat. As he did, Jenkins thought he caught a glimpse of crimson.
"I've been in poor health since I was a child. I'm rather surprised I've lived this long, to be honest. But enough of that."
He gazed at the bustling servants as they carefully lifted one antique after another from the straw-packed crates, and a faint smile touched his lips.
"I have been fond of antiques from the ancient Sicari Kingdom for a long ti. But authentic pieces from that vanished kingdom... those are well beyond the ans of an impoverished viscount such as myself."
"In truth, there isn't much difference between these reproductions and the genuine articles. It is rely a matter of age; the artistic style and the materials are identical."
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