Chapter 42
“Robert Stevenson… Ah, yes, that gentleman does live here…”
With one hand clutching the flyer to his chest and the other pressing down on his hat that nearly fell off, the boy instinctively answered the question, "But why are you looking for him? That guy's a weirdo, nobody wants to go near him..."
As he spoke, he tilted his head back to try and see who was inquiring about the strange man's whereabouts—before he could form any other impressions, those wine-red eyes beneath the raven-black hair filled his entire field of vision.
No, perhaps the color wasn't a clear wine red; it was deeper, so intense that when the other person was stared at by those indifferent eyes, they seemed to instinctively feel fear.
The boy blinked, dazed. In that instant, he felt as if he had seen something more peculiar, a dark existence that seemed to have been swept away to the other side of the world.
But the next moment, it seemed to be nothing more than an absurd illusion—he released his hand from the top of his hat and used it to rub his eyes.
Thus, those eyes that seemed to gaze from the abyss appeared to be nothing more than ordinary red, with the skin beneath them even showing a faint bluish-black tinge; the skin not covered by clothing, however, was an unhealthy pale, and its complexion was worse than that of ordinary people of the same age.
Even the fingers gripping the umbrella handle have distinct knuckles. If one were to forcibly ignore the deep bruise on the index finger joint, the overall shape could be described as extremely elegant, slender, and delicate.
There were also tall brown leather boots, a warm and thick wool coat, and straight, well-fitting black trousers. You could tell at a glance that the materials were of excellent quality, and no one would dare to question it even if it was handmade.
No matter how you look at it, he exudes an aristocratic air. The boy muttered to himself. Such a high-ranking figure would come looking for that strange guy? Could he really be some kind of doctor or physician, as he boasted?
None of his neighbors liked to associate with him, so much so that when he first heard the name, he thought the man had finally made an enemy.
"But I've heard that he's a doctor who's famous far and wide,"
The other party replied politely, "Well, it could also be Dr. Stevenson. Given that the two names are the same, and I have never had the opportunity to visit him and gain further understanding."
"I don't think that's a good reputation, sir."
After muttering this, the boy remembered that he still had the task of distributing flyers to complete, so he quickly stood up straight and bowed—as he bent over, the contents of the top flyer in the stack were exposed to Tuosi's eyes.
[The highly anticipated Fast Royal Theatre presents the most spectacular escape magic trick performed by the youngest magician from abroad!]
“Go straight until you reach the next fork in the road, then turn right. You’ll see a small house in blue and yellow. That’s Robert Stevenson’s house. But we all know he’s notoriously eccentric and unpredictable, sir.”
As the boy straightened up, he kindly reminded the man, "He's always changing his mind. Today he says Grandma Manda's dog is obedient and cute, but tomorrow he'll threaten to kill it because he can't stand the dog hair floating in the air."
"And then there's Aunt Judith who kindly brings him apple pie, and he can politely accept the gift and express his liking, only to turn on him the very next day, saying it's the most disastrous thing he's ever eaten in his life..."
The boy spoke at length, giving several examples to warn the man that if he insisted on contacting him, he should never believe a word the man said—this was the advice of the local residents over many years.
Fortunately, the umbrella had tilted slightly earlier, covering the boy as well.
"I see,"
Without interrupting a single word of his speech, the other person continued, nodding slightly, "I will be careful. Thank you for your help, you good little gentleman."
"Really!" The boy seemed very happy, and after emphasizing the route the other person was going to take next, he left reluctantly.
This may be the closest he has ever had to a nobleman!
Dostoevsky watched his figure disappear around the corner before continuing to walk toward the building.
He wasn't unaware of Robert Stevenson's address; he simply wanted to confirm whether the man's personality was truly as unpredictable as rumored.
This answer was exactly what he expected.
This time, he even changed into local attire for his trip to England. After changing out of the Russian-style cloak and Cossack hat with ear flaps, he became less conspicuous due to his lack of distinctive features. He successfully smuggled himself into England under a false name, and no one paid any attention to him once he set foot on the land.
Although Dostoevsky didn't care at all whether he was being watched by the British intelligence agency [Clock Tower Attendants], the person visiting him this time was too special, and he didn't want anyone to be able to deduce any clues about his own abnormality from this meeting.
The wool coat also suited him very well—it was a fitted, belted British design, a classic aesthetic that originated in Britain and has swept the world.
Perhaps some people don't like wearing belts, but the etiquette-conscious Dostoevsky always wears his clothes meticulously, neatly, and without a care in the world, making his waist look narrow and slender, and the slightly wide cuffs are long enough to cover the back of his hands.
Turning the corner, he found the small house with its blue and yellow color scheme, Robert Stevenson's residence.
The gate was unlocked, and the lawn hadn't been mowed or cleaned in a long time; it was already ankle-deep, and there were many withered leaves and wildflowers scattered among it.
Doss walked along the slightly muddy stone path, folded his umbrella under the eaves, and rang the doorbell.
—No one came to open the door for a minute after the doorbell rang.
Tuosi pressed the button again, but there was still no response.
This doesn't make sense, because according to the intelligence, that "strange person" rarely leaves home. Unless he goes out to buy necessities, he won't leave the yard.
The doorbell rang twice but didn't ring the owner of the building; instead, it attracted the neighbor next door.
She was a slightly plump middle-aged woman with her hair tightly tied in a bun. She deliberately opened the door and called out to Tuosi across the courtyard.
"Are you here to see Stevenson? Who are you, his friend?"
"Just an uninvited visitor."
Turning around, Dostoevsky answered politely, and humbly asked her for advice, "Did he feel offended?"
"Offense? That strange man is already being well-behaved if he doesn't offend others!" The woman with her hair in a bun waved her hand. "I thought you were his friend, so at least I could get back the twenty pounds I lent him... But if you really want to see him today, I suggest you try to force your way in, even if it's a bit rude."
Dostoevsky: "Hmm?"
“He hasn’t shown up for two days, two whole days, and there hasn’t been a sound from the house.”
As Robert Stevenson's neighbor, no one knew him better than her.
"This is illogical. Although I often complain about his antics—think about it, living alone, he not only simulates arguing with someone, but sometimes he even climbs onto the roof to recite poetry loudly, or takes a shovel to the backyard in the middle of the night to dig up dirt and then bury it back in. Anyone would wonder when he'll bury himself in that hole."
"His behavior is extremely bizarre, illogical and disorderly, full of self-contradictory absurdity... Lately, he seems to be shouting something about magicians and clowns in the middle of the night... But at least, he's making a show of being alive."
"Are you suggesting he might have died at home?" Dostoevsky asked after hearing the information.
"Who knows? It would be fine if he were really dead, but what if he's alive? Nobody around here dares to go in and mess with him. Getting hit on the head with a shovel is no laughing matter."
Perhaps because Dostoevsky, dressed in ordinary clothes, looked too gentle, well-behaved, and harmless, the lady with her hair in a bun even made a teasing joke at the end.
“You seem to be there specifically to visit him, so go in and try your luck. Remember to run fast when you see that guy trying to grab something, so you don’t get your head smashed—oh, you look too thin, I suggest you stand far away from him first.”
"..." Dostoevsky bowed slightly to her as she turned to go back inside. "Thank you for reminding me, Madam."
In the corner of the yard sat the shovel that had appeared in the other person's description earlier. Tuosi used it to smash the door lock, forcing the flimsy wooden door in front of him to open more easily.
The hall was already quite messy, with papers covered in writing scattered all over the floor, as if a strong wind had swept through the room—but the windows were closed and the latches were firmly locked.
Most people who are considered eccentric by their neighbors rarely take good care of their homes, let alone Mr. Stevenson, whose unpredictable temper is a well-known personality trait in the neighborhood.
But apart from the paper scattered all over the floor, the interior of this small building is actually quite neat and clean.
Standing still, Tuosi carefully examined the area and noticed that the homeowner had polished everything around the fireplace, including the small ornaments on it, until they were almost sparkling.
Even in places where dust most easily accumulates, the cleanliness and orderliness make it hard to reconcile Robert Stevenson with the image his neighbors describe.
Leaning the umbrella against the doorframe, Dostoevsky picked up one of the pieces of paper and found that it contained what appeared to be a medical record. More precisely, it resembled an observation record of a patient.
When you touch the paper with your fingertips, apart from the slight indentation caused by the pen, there are also very subtle undulations, as if it were left after being soaked in a large amount of moist moisture and then dried.
He glanced at the rest of the papers on the floor; most were in similar condition, differing only in the content and the degree of unevenness of the paper.
Letting the paper fall freely, Tuosi went upstairs and found that the situation there was even better. There were no scattered papers or books; everything was neatly arranged on the wooden shelf with the glass door in the study, categorized and organized.
Just like the owner of this house suddenly vanished into thin air at some point, leaving no trace of his body.
Doss returned to the entrance of the small building and picked up the umbrella he had brought.
The drizzle continued to fall, soaking every rooftop and brickwork, a scene that seemed to have become a permanent feature of the city.
"Are you leaving?"
Having apparently been keeping an eye on things, the woman with her hair in a bun next door reappeared in the yard, separated only by a fence. It was unclear whether she was concerned about Robert Stevenson's safety or about her twenty pounds.
"How is he? Is he dead or alive?"
"He was just not home. I'm so sorry I broke his door lock."
Dostoevsky smiled at her and opened his long black umbrella in the rain.
"I'm on my way to see him. Don't worry, I'll take your instructions with me."
"Huh? But I haven't heard him leave the house in the last couple of days..."
The woman with her hair tied in a bun muttered in confusion, then went back to her room.
Dostoevsky then retraced his steps along the stone path to the spot where the boy had bumped into him, crossed another road, and continued walking forward.
Fast Royal Theatre.
This is a luxurious theater specially designed and built for indoor circuses and comprehensive performances. Built during the Italian Renaissance, it features rustic red brick walls, exquisite and intricate carved columns, and magnificent Venetian rose windows. Just standing there, it is a magnificent landscape that tells a story of history and culture.
Even today, it is still in use, and the theater welcomes any performance that can attract an audience, including circuses, operas, dramas, plays, orchestras, and magic shows.
This time, the theater warmly received a magician who has recently become very popular and had taken the initiative to contact them. They arranged the most comfortable hotel and the best performance time for him, and did a lot of publicity before the show.
Initially, the theater even planned to provide him with an accompanying translator, but he demonstrated in extremely fluent English that he did not need a translator.
And after two performances, the young magician did not disappoint them—if anything can attract more popularity than an excellent magician, it is a young, handsome, and exceptionally talented magician.
Tickets for those two shows sold out almost immediately, and the theater, which made a fortune, generously agreed to all of his privacy requests, even turning a blind eye to his unusual behavior.
They had only secured a few performance deals, so they weren't going to go through the trouble of doing something that would harm others, be detrimental to themselves, and could even cause the deals to fall apart.
However, if someone pays them a large sum of money to help introduce someone to them, they will not refuse.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” the theater manager said, tapping a pillar at the edge of the stage with his knuckles to draw the genius magician’s attention slightly in their direction.
"Someone is standing outside the door wanting to see you..."
“Mr. Nikolai Vasilyevich”.
—The magic wand that was tumbling in the air was caught and gently swung back and forth twice on the fingertips.
"Uh-huh?"
A beautiful heterochromatic eye beneath her silver hair looked over curiously, her tone light and cheerful, "Who's looking for me?"
"He didn't reveal his name, only that he introduced himself as a friend of Robert Stevenson." The person in charge repeated that sentence word for word, "[He hopes to meet this amazing escape room master] - that's what he said."
The air was quiet for a moment.
"That's what he said?"
The magician, respectfully addressed as Nikolai Vasilyevich, smiled, which gradually widened to one of pure delight. "This is truly delightful! He's the one who solved the puzzle; he's the one who found me!"
The magic wand was carelessly tossed on the stage, and the cape, held up by thin chains and pom-poms, billowed with each hurried step, revealing a shirt, vest, suit, and top hat fully incorporating clown elements—even though he was still dressed in his magic performance attire, he walked through the corridor without a care in the world toward the door.
There, indeed, was a figure holding a long-handled umbrella waiting for him.
“It is an honor to meet you, Nikolai Vasilyevich.”
Upon seeing him approach, the other person seemed to reveal a subtle, amused smile in their eyes. "Would you mind if I told you about Mr. Stevenson's whereabouts?"
These two sentences were spoken in Russian.
As soon as the perfectly familiar syllables begin, the magician is almost ready to cheer with delight—just like the audience usually does for him.
Nikolai Vasilyevich was a magician from Russia.
"How do you know it was me? Who are you? I don't believe you're Stevenson's friend. Are you like me?"
His smile widened. "I am Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol Yanovsky. Oh dear, is my name too long? No problem, you can call me Nikolai, but any more affectionate nicknames won't do. Hehe, what about yours?"
For Russians, a full name consists of their first name, patronymic, and surname.
The most common way to pronounce it is by first name plus patronym. This is how you address colleagues, neighbors, or strangers you are meeting for the first time, to show respect while also being a little friendly.
Using a first name plus surname is more common in written language, while addressing someone by their first name conveys a sense of familiarity and closeness.
The name itself also has many corresponding nicknames and pet names to express different feelings—just as Fedia is Fedor's pet name, Nikolai also has a corresponding pet name.
"Fyodor".
Faced with this interesting magician, Dostoevsky neither gave him his full name nor a pseudonym, but chose to only say his given name.
"Oh dear, just a name? Are you hiding some little secret? But it's okay, I don't mind."
Even when confronted, Gogol remained remarkably excited, displaying an agitation completely contrary to that of ordinary people. "Me? Me? I'm more interested in knowing how Fyodor discovered that I was the one who hid the person. It was a completely, utterly secret room, you know?"
“Because the paper shows signs of being blown apart by a strong gust of wind and soaked in a lot of moisture at the same time,” Dostoevsky said in a much calmer tone, “how to do this with the doors and windows closed? All you need is a key piece of information.”
"And rats always hold many secrets."
He turned his gaze slightly to him, a knowing smile curving his lips. "It's like... you use it to perform a ranged teleportation ability."
"...I see. You're not just quick-witted, are you?" Gogol laughed even harder after his little trick was exposed in just a few words. "So, what brings you to that psychiatrist?"
"I just wanted to ask him to help me with some experiments."
Dostoevsky said this politely.
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