Soft tinkling noises of delicate teacups sparkled out into the magnificent hall. While the butler, Greaves, strode up the crimson carpet and knocked clearly on the door, which was slightly ajar. Blight, dressed in a modest suit and tie, came over and admitted his butler into the room.
"Mr Davis is here to see you."
"Please guide him in."
Greaves nodded and left Blight alone in his thoughts.
Most of the key figures have been removed… When the time comes, he will be next to go…
A loud knock announced the arrival of the visitor.
"Mr Davis," introduced the butler.
A man, who was so short and twitchy, one might have thought he was an overgrown rodent in clothes, entered the room, scanned Blight beadily and shook his hand stiffly.
"May I offer you a cup?" asked Blight politely, holding out a fine teacup. "You can leave us, Greaves," he added, turning to his butler. Greaves nodded again and left, shutting the door firmly behind him.
"So, Mr Davis," began Blight, "Is there anything you require from me?"
"Well, sir, I'm a journalist you see, and I'm trying to collect information on the case of the exploding boiler from Wensworth's factory. Seeing how you are one of the closest to the man himself, I've decided to come and ask a few questions."
"I see…" Blight's face remained expressionless as he listened.
"Well then, may I proceed with the questions?"
"Please do, Mr Davis."
"Right then," started Mr Davis, taking out a small notebook and holding it in front of him, "May I ask, for the sake of accuracy in my article, where were you and how did you feel when you received the news of the factory explosion?"
"Where was I? Why, I was strolling through my garden when the news came to me."
"What about your thoughts on the incident?" asked Mr Davis forcefully, peering over his notebook like a professor giving a dull lecture.
"My thoughts…"
This man is clearly not a journalist as he claims. His boots are military-grade, his notebook is one commonly associated with police work, and his authoritative tone suggests he's used to ordering people around. Moreover, he still hasn't mentioned his publisher nor the company he works for; this man is no journalist but a representative of the police in disguise.
Aware of the visitor's true profession, Blight exhaled slowly and drank calmly, treating the man sitting opposite him as if he was a friend chatting lightly with him.
"What is your relationship with Mr Wensworth, and how close would you say you were with him?"
"We've been friends from the start of the year, always talking about business, our lives, and our interests… I would say that I was as close to him as any other person could be."
"Thank you, now moving on to the next question…"
As the interview dragged on, Blight patiently waited for a crack in the questioning, an opportunity he could use to reverse the roles and gain the upper hand against the detective in front of him.
"Do you mind if I ask a question, sir?"
Mr Davis stared at him, surprised at this sudden request.
"My knowledge doesn't extend to anything unconcerning the incident, so if you don't mind then do ask."
"That's fine. I wanted to ask you what the deadline was for your scoop."
"Oh, that's next week."
"What about your lede? I generally find the lede to be the most important aspect of the article."
Mr Davis froze.
Lead? It can't be… Has he already figured out who I am?
A strand of long brown hair dropped to the ground and a pink ribbon fluttered onto the table as the detective flipped through his notes slowly and as naturally as he could, his composure breaking for the first time. Blight noticed a small fingerprint smudged on the book's cover, barely visible in the soft light. Gently breaking the long silence, Blight remarked, "I notice you have a young child. A daughter, perhaps?"
"Y–Yes," stammered Mr Davis, who was grateful that the topic had been changed.
"And, apologies for my rudeness, but are you recently divorced?"
"How do you know?"
"There is a band of skin on your finger that is much lighter than the rest of your hand; your wedding ring used to be there. Seeing how you had reacted to the word 'relationship' and how you frequently avoided mentioning your family when you were questioning me, it became apparent to me that your home affairs are not as stable as they once were."
"If that is all you have to say," said Mr Davis curtly, "Then please excuse me; I'll be going now."
"Please remain seated, Mr Davis; I had no intention of offending you. I want to help."
The detective hesitated, then sat back down.
"Your daughter, she prefers her mother doesn't she?"
"I don't know how you do it, but yes."
"As a caring father, you must be confused? Or angry that you cannot achieve anything?"
There was absolute silence in the room, save for Davis' quickened breathing and the quiet rustling of the notebook's pages as he fidgeted around with it.
"But among all these emotions, it's your daughter's happiness you want most, isn't it?"
Another long pause followed. Blight patiently waited for his words to sink in and observed the man in front of him, who was thinking hard on his words.
"If your daughter's wish is to be with her mother, what can you do?"
Blight lowered his voice even further until it became no more than a whisper.
"And you know, emotions can be the hardest things in the world to control… What if suddenly they get out of hand? Things could be catastrophic for your daughter… Imagine her… Blaming you… Disowning you… The easiest way to protect your daughter is to simply disappear…"
—
"What?" cried Sigerson, making the troubled inspector jump. "You sent another detective to interrogate Blight?"
"Well, yes, but he was supposed to be disguised as a journalist to avoid suspicion."
"And you said he was found dead this morning?"
"He was run over by a cab at about five this morning. We've questioned the cabman and could find nothing against him."
"Can I see the place of the accident?"
"I'll bring you there myself."
Within a couple of minutes, they had arrived; the body had been taken away, but the damage was still clearly visible. Large splashes of blood were splattered on the ground and hoof prints danced around the dirty cobblestone road. Many constables were in the vicinity, keeping onlookers away.
"Do you see," observed Sigerson, "That the footprints of the man were facing towards the cab when it approached? The cab swerved—" He pointed at a group of hoofprints arranged messily on the ground. "But the footprints show that the man did not move at all. It's most likely that he committed suicide."
"What if he was drunk?" asked the inspector. Sigerson shook his head and said, "That's highly unlikely. The footprints leading up to here are perfectly stable; a drunk man's footprints would never look like these."
"But why would he commit suicide?" asked Inspector Branch, as they hailed a nearby cab, after Sigerson was satisfied with the crime scene.
"I lack information, so I have no idea," remarked the detective dully.
"Do you still suspect Blight?"
"Suspect him?"
Sigerson thought for a while.
"My suspicions against him may need some confirming, but I am sure he's in this criminal business. But please keep this between ourselves, inspector; I don't want anyone to know that I suspect him."
While the cab was still rattling around the busy streets, inside of it, the detective was still deciding on the path to take next. His mind ceaselessly processed theories and predictions; each thought became more and more complicated as new questions arose for every obstacle he encountered in his mind. At last, seeing as he needed many more answers, Sigerson concluded that seeking a private conversation with Blight and trying to get some insight on his behaviour and personality would be his next approach to the case.
After they had arrived back at the station, Sigerson rushed back out, explaining that he had a crucial step he might have overlooked, and sprinted to the train station, barely making it in time for the departing train. On the train, he laid out his facts and attempted to rearrange them again.
I know that the person organising the crimes must have a wide network available to them; the general was assassinated with no evidence left behind, the newspaper company owner run over by a cab was killed on purpose, and the disappearance of the Foreign Affairs minister was done right in the middle of a large crowd if I remember correctly… None of these crimes were random, nor could a single person carry it out; no, they were targeted for a reason… Each one of the victims were close to Avarice Crowne and held a high position for him, providing him with support when he needed it most. Although they were replaced afterwards, without them, the government's power diminished by a large degree… The fall of Wensworth's factory led to Blight monopolising the coal industry, which allows him to now control cities to a certain degree through coal supplies and electricity. The main suspect of the crime then gets assassinated, wiping away much of the needed evidence…
Looking outside the compartment window, the cluttered city scenery gradually changed into grassy hills, large herds of cattle, and tilled farmland. The dainty town of Eden peeked up from behind a tall hill, which many flocks and herds could be seen roaming around on, grazing peacefully without a care in the world. Warm, pleasant rays of sunlight reflected off the cool pristine lake next to the town, which gave it the appearance of a giant mirror.
Steadily, the train slowed down and came to a stop. The conductor announced the station, prompting Sigerson to leave.
"This stop: Eden."
Stepping out of the train, he looked around for a map to help him locate his final destination.
"Excuse me," he asked politely to a blonde girl, who was dressed in a neat brown apron, carrying a large paper bag filled with vegetables. "Do you know how I can get to Mr Blight's mansion from here?"
The girl turned to him with surprise, then recovered and replied, smiling slightly, "I can help take you there, sir."
Sigerson, a bit taken aback at her readiness to help, replied hesitantly, "Thank you very much, miss."
She led him out of the train station and out into the streets. Eden had no high-rising buildings in contrast with Sodor, which gave it a much warmer tone than the industrial city that gave off clouds of polluted air that Sigerson was accustomed to. Bakeries opened their doors, allowing the scent of freshly baked bread to waft into the air, small children spent their time running and frollicking around on the grass, and elderly shopkeepers came out to greet them genially.
"You're not from around here, are you, sir?" asked the girl cheerfully, looking around her shoulder.
"No, I'm not," the detective replied wearily.
Sigerson took a moment to observe and consider the girl walking in front of him, treating her as if she was an interesting specimen in a lab.
Judging from her familiarity with these streets, as well as her apron and the amount and variety of shopping materials she has, it's clear she's a maid, possibly employed by Blight. It would be wise to be cautious around her, just in case…
"Well, here we are, sir!" she called, as they reached a pair of iron gates. Located on the outskirts of the city, Blight's impressive estate was a giant expanse of land enclosed in a fence of iron bars. A languid guard was sitting in a booth behind the fence. When he saw the pair walking up, he said, "Welcome back, Elena. Who's this?"
He leaned over and peered at Sigerson curiously through his spectacles.
"I am with the police," Sigerson replied, quietly, showing him his card. "There are a few questions I have to ask Mr Blight."
The gates opened, the guard nodded, and they continued walking. A string attached to a bell was stuck next to the door, which the maid pulled. As soon as the bell was rung, an elderly butler opened the door and immediately admitted the maid, who looked back and said, "He's a policeman who's here to ask questions, Greaves."
The butler stared at him with mild surprise, then said, "Come in, sir, and I'll call Mr Blight down to meet you."
He turned to tell his master, but a gentle voice behind him said, "It's alright, Greaves. Into this room if you please, detective."
Blight held open a door and waited for him to enter.
It was not as Sigerson expected. The room, while it did have rich crimson curtains tied with gold string in bundles at the sides of the arched windows and a proud piano standing in the middle of the room, was barely furnished, containing only two armchairs and an ivory table.
"Please have a seat," said Blight, gesturing at one of the armchairs. "Oh, and if you take out your revolver and place it on the table, I'll be much obliged to you."
A soft clunk notified him of the displaced weapon.
"Now, detective," asked Blight, staring at Sigerson's blank face impassively, "What does the police require from me?"
"I'm afraid you are a suspect for no less than five crimes committed this week."
"That is… Some interesting news indeed…" murmured Blight with concern.
"If you have any information concerning these cases that could lead us to the culprit, please tell me."
He won't tell me any information that would be helpful; instead, anything he says will mostly be false or designed to lead me away from—
"I'm sorry, but I have nothing to say. There is nothing I have that could help you."
"Nothing, sir?"
Blight shook his head sadly and replied, "I've got nothing to say."
So the police haven't caught up yet, then? You, Sigerson, came here to determine if I was the culprit, didn't you? This proves it; you have no evidence against me…
"However," Blight continued, "if you can give me details of the crimes, I may be of some assistance; I have studied law and crime before, so it would be improper to say that I have little experience in these things."
Sigerson nodded and started off with a description of Wensworth Factory's boiler explosion.
There's no harm in giving him these facts' after all, they are going to become public, and I might be able to catch him in a trap if I leave out some details for him to fill in…
With his head slightly tilted to one side, Blight listened intently with his blue eyes down, barely open. When Sigerson finally finished his lengthy monologue, Blight slowly raised his head, thoughtfully rearranged a decorative vase and answered in a quiet, resolute voice, "According to your facts, I can conclude that the culprit behind the crimes has a vast variety of resources, well-connected to the government, and likely has an eye for high positions in the government, which could benefit them either directly or indirectly."
"How did you come to that conclusion, sir?"
"Well, firstly, judging by the crimes committed, the wide scope of them, and how they were carried out, I would say that the possibility of an individual performing these crimes is close to zero. Secondly, since the army general had quite a number of bodyguards and rarely appears in public, the culprit must know exactly where he will go and when he is most vulnerable to attack: something only a government official would know, since they provide the protection for him. As for the last point, the deceased were all in high positions in the government; if they were removed, replacements would be needed, and they could be replaced by puppets and the person over them would gain much power."
Sigerson nodded again in response, thinking deeply.
The description he provided is nearly identical as mine. Is he trying to imply that the mastermind is someone other than himself? Is he really the one behind the crimes?
"I'm afraid I might have confused you with my explanation," smiled Blight.
"No, not at all."
"You seem to be a little tired. Is everything alright?" asked Blight, after a short pause, his face expressing gentle concern.
"Yes, I'm quite well, sir."
Blight leaned in, his eyes fixed on the desk in front of him.
"I have often heard stories of the dangers from working in the Constabulary," he said softly, "But I never believed much of what they said."
The air around them seemed to grow tenser with every second that passed.
"I don't understand you, sir."
"I mean, it's a dirty world, isn't it? Kill or be killed? Have you ever been in a situation where killing the criminal was the right thing to do?"
For a split second, Sigerson froze on the seat, then narrowed his eyes and answered hesitantly, "Yes, but only in self defence."
"I have often found myself questioning morality; if the law exists to maintain justice, why then is depravity and suffering still prominent in our society?"
"I think," murmured Sigerson, "you may have mistakened the law for a set of commandments. It only exists to guide the people and correct them but it is never perfect."
"You're most right, and I have to agree with you. But this leads to humans being the source of wrong. What is morality but a facade that we all hide behind? When humans are faced with disaster, their true natures are exposed; barbaric and evil, each competing with another for survival. After all, who can say 'I am clean and without sin'? No, a righteous person has never existed nor will there ever be one; everyone has a hidden vice inside of them, waiting to be exposed on the surface."
It was starting to get dark outside. Noticing this, Sigerson got up and took his revolver, excused himself, and reached for the doorknob, when Blight's silky voice carried itself across the room.
"Please contact me again, if you are able to clear me of suspicion, Mr Sigerson."
Assuring him half-heartedly, Sigerson left, wondering if he had just met the most dangerous mind in the country.