Chapter 74 Chapter 74 Some people just love this one thing and don’t like it…
The consulting detective, saying, "I'm not interested at all" and "I'm busy," rushed to the scene. As they made their way through the lush, fluffy gardens and lawns, Sherlock paused thoughtfully. Perhaps from the previous night's rain, the gravel beneath their feet was inevitably stained with trampled mud. Dr. Watson, following behind him, lifted his foot and glanced at his muddy trouser leg.
"I would have thought a manor like this would be cleaned regularly," he whispered.
"That's what it should have been," said Sherlock. "But the owner of the manor is dead."
"Okay," Watson said, "that sounds reasonable."
"It would have been more reasonable for the staff to leave the scene to Scotland Yard to investigate," Sherlock complained, "but they're walking around, completely destroying any possible clues. 'Even a herd of buffaloes wouldn't have trampled through it like this.'"
Watson couldn't help coughing, for at that moment, there were quite a few Scotland Yard officers milling about, carrying things and whispering about something. Of course, the policemen who heard what he said gave him some unfriendly looks, but Sherlock walked so quickly that he didn't notice their glances at all.
"Do you think the murderer might have passed this way?" said Watson.
"Any normal person would do that," Sherlock said, "but now we can only hope he doesn't."
The doors and windows were wide open.
The deceased sat on the sofa, just as he had been found, covered with a thin blanket. The officer, who had just finished taking photos, made way for them. But Sherlock didn't rush to the sofa. Instead, he scanned the vast study, which was heavily punctuated by white tracing lines. Scattered evidence covered the floor, including muddy footprints stained with grass by the window, a fire extinguisher smashed into the floor, and irregularly scattered bloodstains. Not to mention the shuffled documents on the desk and the scattered papers across the room. Scotland Yard doubted what important information was there, but for the sake of preserving the scene, they preserved as much of it as possible.
"What a mess!" muttered Watson.
Any normal person would say that. But Sherlock's eyes lit up, like a cat that's found a surprise ball of yarn. He examined the area with great delight (the black trench coat swung behind him like a cat's tail), carefully measuring the two solid wood-paneled doors, examining them with his magnifying glass and flashlight. As for the broken glass and muddy footprints, Sherlock occasionally made a sound of frustration, and Watson probably caught a glimpse of him blaming the staff for the damage.
"The staff found the body," Lestrade said to Watson. "They broke down the door, but..."
The detective tilted his head toward the two open traditional English oak doors. They looked quite heavy and solid. Watson looked away and nodded in understanding. No one could break through those two monsters.
"Then they went to the window and smashed the glass with a fire extinguisher." Lestrade pointed to the mess between the sofa and the window, "and climbed in to check the situation."
"So those are traces from after the incident," Watson said.
"Yes," Lestrade shrugged helplessly. "Whatever might have been there has been destroyed by their messy muddy footprints."
"They're certainly stupid, but not so stupid as to destroy all the evidence." Sherlock emerged from the tall, dense bookshelves, carrying a small, transparent evidence bag. "We're looking for a six-foot-tall, skinny but extremely powerful American male professional killer wearing work boots, who belongs to a killer organization. Of course, he might have lost his shoes, but in any case, he should be wearing a size nine."
Almost everyone stared at him with a puzzled look, except Watson.
"Did you find the murderer's footprints?" asked Watson.
"Yes, between the bookshelves." Sherlock pointed backwards. "You really should have looked more closely. Obviously not everyone who walks through muddy floors would be so careless as to leave noticeable footprints. But a delicate floor like this, waxed daily? It would bear evidence of everyone who had been there."
"But our men searched the entire study," Lestrade emphasized.
Sherlock sighed.
"The floor must have been waxed not long ago." He gestured towards his feet. "The wax film, which hadn't had time to fully harden yet, is soft and slightly sticky. No matter how clean the murderer wiped his shoes, any remaining impurities would be absorbed by the wax film. I shone a flashlight sideways on the floor, and even the slightest impurity would ruin the wax floor's uniform reflective effect."
Having finally grasped a clue, Lestrade leaped to his feet, urging the others to hurry. Soon, thanks to their arrangements, the study was completely dark again, and the windows were temporarily covered. Only the killer's footprints, gleaming brightly under the ultraviolet light, entered through the study door, paused briefly by the desk, and then moved unimpeded to the messy window.
"He murdered the victim right here," Sherlock said, squatting there. "He covered his face with a blanket he had picked up from the hook beside the desk, and pierced his neck with a sharp weapon."
"What are these backward footprints?" asked Watson.
"That's what I was going to say." Sherlock took a picture. "He half-supported, half-carried the deceased, and made him sit on the sofa. These blood spots were shed at that time."
"Then he paused before the deceased." Lestrade followed the footprints. "He turned and walked between the bookshelves... Wait, then what?"
"The footprints disappeared without a trace," Watson said, looking again and again in disbelief. "He couldn't possibly have grown wings and flown away!"
Sherlock shone the light in his hand upwards, following the direction where the footprints disappeared. In the dim light, a mysterious smile appeared on his face.
"Of course that's impossible, John," said Sherlock. "A good enough detective story would never have such an ending. Wouldn't the audience be outraged if it did?"
The sharp-eyed detective reached out with precision and pulled a thick, hardcover book from the shelf, which was much less dusty than the other books. Everyone heard the sound of a chain turning.
"Oh my God," murmured Lestrade.
A dark room opened before them. Lights began to flicker on one by one.
"There must be a secret passage leading to the outside world." Sherlock turned off the ultraviolet flashlight and twitched his nose carefully a few times. "Yes, I smell it. The murderer left through there."
Meanwhile, the assassin, unaware that he was about to be tracked down by London's finest hounds, sat in an armchair, staring expressionlessly at a card in his hand.
Green. Lovers with a heart.
As if mocking his previous useless efforts, the heart flashed golden light under Elio's gaze.
"I have tried," said Galahad, "but it seems you are the only one who can accomplish this task."
The Templar's expression was a mixture of false sympathy and a genuine smile. He probably genuinely found it amusing. But Elio sat there, speechless for a long time, as if all the Templars he had slain had been resurrected overnight by the red moon.
"Is it that difficult?" Galahad looked at him. "Honestly, Elio, you have a pretty face. A nice figure, too. Oh, and a nice personality, too. Some people just like quiet people. How come you can't find..."
"Thank you, but please stop." Elio put away the cards. "Thank you for trying to help."
Two days left. Elio counted the minutes, trying not to look too obviously frustrated. Where on earth was he going to find someone who, for some inexplicable reason, would sleep with him?
But before he could leave, Galahad called out to him.
"Wait," the Templar said, "I have another way."
Elio turned around. Galahad was holding a business card and motioned towards him. Elio hesitated, then took it.
"I checked the cards," Galahad said with a smile. "She happens to be bronze-level. Perhaps she can help you."
Elio glanced at him doubtfully, then looked at the black and white parchment business card that still had a faint scent of irises. There was almost nothing written on it, no occupation, no address, only a short line of words.
The Whip-Bearer, Irene Adela.
The lady graciously addressed Elio's immediate needs, though at his own cost. As her whip safely brushed against the assassin's trembling Adam's apple, forcing his head up, Elio finally heard the familiar cracking sound he had longed for.
The Cards grudgingly acknowledged their game.
"That's odd," Erin mused, "you don't look like you're enjoying it at all."
All her efforts and attempts at the assassin seemed insignificant, almost like the scratching of a cat's claws. Perhaps it was because Elio had already experienced so much bloodshed. Irene regarded Elio with curiosity, her probing intent cleverly hidden in her fleeting gaze. Irene knew that those who had truly experienced the battlefield, such as this, often craved more excitement and abuse, but nothing could tempt them more than the next battlefield.
"I really didn't enjoy it at all," Elio admitted frankly. "But don't worry. You did me a big favor."
He pulled on his black windbreaker. The assassin dressed in a way that didn't fit in with the decor of Erin's room. Erin, draped in her nightgown, crouched there, studying him with a mixture of mature charm and innocent curiosity.
"I don't know how I've helped you, dear," she said, "but I wish I could be more helpful."
Elio smiled. "Do you really hope so?"
"Of course, sweetheart." Erin winked at him. "If only you knew how delicious you are."
Elio was silent for a few seconds, then pretended not to hear her. "I've been told you hold a lot of information," he said bluntly. "I do need a little help."
But he didn't say what kind of help it was. Irene didn't move, just sat there crookedly, picked up a cane, and hooked it under Elio's chin; the assassin cooperated and moved closer, lowering his head to listen to the Queen of Intelligence's response.
"Whatever help you need, you've found the right person," Erin said softly. "But what's your price?"
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The author has something to say: *Even if a herd of buffaloes had trampled through it, it wouldn't have been as messy as it is now. From The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and A Study in Scarlet.
Oreo has already cleaned up the marks, but he has never lived in a place with waxed floors x
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