Chapter 1374: Chapter 1374

"There's no need to worry. It's a small matter, you needn't be so tense. Weren't 'we' just discussing the serial murders in Roman Town? Find the killer before sunset and bring them here. I will give you the clues you need—not just about the end of the epoch, but also about that peculiar tobacco. Some of my followers have indeed gone too far this time."

So spoke the God of Spices and Mist, his most proper title.

Roman Town was sparsely populated and small, a thoroughly ordinary country town. It was nothing like the major northern hub of Spa Town, which Jenkins had once visited.

A murder in a place was bound to cause a panic. After all, nearly everyone knew each other. If a killing occurred, and there were no long-term visitors from out of town, it meant the culprit had to be one of their own.

The easiest way to investigate would be to work alongside the police. That would grant him access to the latest intelligence and a full understanding of the case's circumstances.

Unfortunately, Jenkins had no connections. He couldn't think of a single valid reason for the police to let him join the investigation—he wasn't a famous detective, after all. He could, of course, use the power of lies, but that would mean deceiving far more than one or two people. He wasn't yet capable of deploying falsehoods on such a large scale, at least not in his current state.

"So, what exactly does that god want?" Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by NoveI-Fire.ɴet

Jenkins was still pondering the god's motives as he walked back into town. He deliberately took the same route back from the intersection where he'd seen the officers, but by the time he arrived, both the police and the body had vanished, leaving only mottled stains of blood on the ground.

Even if he couldn't find a way to work with the police, money was almost always a solution. For a small price, he learned the basic details about the three victims from the local tavern owner. Then, posing as a writer gathering material for a story, Jenkins headed to the town's police station, hoping to leverage his fabricated identity to get more information.

The chief and the middle-aged officer were out on the case, leaving a single, freckle-faced young man at the station. It was just past noon, and he was clearly succumbing to a post-lunch drowsiness, his head lolling forward. Jenkins had to call his name twice to rouse him.

He sized up Jenkins for a moment, then sat up straight with a mumble. Yawning, he pulled a form reeking of fresh ink from a drawer and slid it across the desk, along with a fountain pen whose nib was already starting to split:

"If you want to file a report, fill this out..."

He paused, taking another look at Jenkins's clothes. Deciding the man before him was likely literate, he didn't bother offering to fill it out for him.

"I'm not here to file a report."

"Restroom's on your left."

"I'm not here for the restroom either."

"Right then. Have a pleasant stay in York Town."

With that, he slumped back down, looking as if he had no intention of sitting up again unless someone was actually there to file a report.

The meow from the cat on his shoulder was soft, yet Jenkins could sense an undertone of mockery in it.

"I'm here to make a donation."

He said, his voice carrying the crisp, standard accent of Nolan City—an accent that, to country folk, was a clear sign of high breeding.

"Yes, a donation. But that's not my only purpose, I'll admit. I'm a writer, you see, and I'm currently traveling for research. I was visiting my old friend, Viscount Franca, when I heard about the murders. I was hoping to learn a few of the details."

With that, he produced a one-pound note from his pocket and laid it on the desk before the young policeman, who eyed him with suspicion.

"You're a writer... and you know Viscount Franca?"

"I am. If you have any doubts, feel free to send someone to ask the viscount. He's staying at his ancestral estate near Lower Vadin Village. I've only just returned from there."

He considered this for a moment, then carefully tucked the banknote into his pocket. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to scrub away the last traces of sleep, before asking slowly:

"What do you want to know? I can't tell you anything too confidential."

"I've already learned the victims' identities and that they seem to be unconnected. What I need now are the locations of the murders themselves. Yes, the actual crime scenes, not just where the bodies were discovered. I'd like to survey the sites. Perhaps proximity to death will provide me with a unique inspiration," Jenkins explained.

"You say you're a writer. So, have you published anything?"

"The Woman and the Seven Hand Bones. It sells for two shillings and seven pence in the Nolan area. You're welcome to read it."

He spun the title out of thin air. He'd already visited the town's only bookstore and knew it was tiny, with a meager selection of books. He was confident the green young officer in front of him wasn't the sort to be widely read.

"I'll pass. I'm more of a fan of chivalric tales, like the Detective Knight series. Fine, I can tell you the locations, but you have to swear you won't go telling everyone."

"I swear on the Sage!"

Jenkins immediately raised one hand, a gesture that seemed to earn him more of the young officer's trust.

"We've only located the scenes for the first two. The third is still under investigation—it only happened last night, after all. The first one was down by the river. Follow this street west out of town until you find the riverside mill. The spot is in the reeds about eighty feet to the right of it. The blood's probably still wet, so you should be able to find it. The second scene is in the town cemetery, but you'll need to persuade the groundskeeper to let you in. And I have to warn you: if you get picked up for looking suspicious at a crime scene, don't you dare mention my name..."

"I understand completely. I won't linger. Thank you again."

The mill in Roman Town operated using both the river's current and the wind. The flowing water and the passing wind each turned a massive wheel, which, through a series of complex shafts and gears, transferred that power to turn the millstones inside.

It was only spring, so the mill wasn't in frequent use. As Jenkins spotted the windmill from a distance, he saw that the area was deserted. Carrying his walking stick, he followed the riverbank with the cat on his shoulder. With the aid of his feline companion's keen sense of smell, he located the exact patch of reeds with pinpoint accuracy.