Chapter 271: Chapter 271

“Have I accidentally gotten myself into some huge mess again?”

Holding the two thumb-sized glass vials up to the light, Jenkins could see minuscule particles suspended in the murky liquid. He couldn't tell if it was insoluble ash or just dust.

“Maybe I should find some time to drop these off at the church entrance?”

Jenkins mulled over the plan, but then it occurred to him that the missing Mr. Clark must have also known that the woodland where yesterday's incident took place was Wesley's hideout. Therefore, any stored documents and plans had likely been altered. Besides, there wasn't much substantial information in them to begin with.

“I’ll go if I feel like it, but it’ll have to wait a few days.”

He finally made up his mind and tidied the items on his desk, gathering them together. Jenkins was accumulating quite a collection of hidden things in his home. He was diligently learning about trap-triggering rituals from Papa Oliver, but for now, rigging a trip-wired steam bomb in the house seemed more effective.

Even though the weather was cold, Chocolate stubbornly refused to wear the small scarf Jenkins had knitted for him. But with only the last week of October left, Jenkins was confident that when the coldest days of late November arrived, Chocolate would have a change of heart.

The streets were nearly empty on Sunday. The few pedestrians who were out hurried along with their necks turtled, wrapped in scarves and hats. He considered taking a carriage, but gritted his teeth and decided to save the money. It wasn't that far, after all.

The Howard Detective Agency, where Erwin Ignaz worked, was located at 38B Tibbester Avenue. The landlady who opened the door for Jenkins wore a white hairnet and eyed his cat with suspicion, but ultimately allowed Chocolate inside.

Although the agency was situated in a residential apartment building, the space was surprisingly large. Jenkins had expected a single office, but it turned out to be the combined space of two adjoined apartments.

The Howard Detective Agency employed several experienced detectives. Although its reputation had been tarnished by a recent blackmail scandal involving an assistant, it still had a steady stream of clients.

The receptionist recommended another detective who was available. Since Jenkins’s purpose was merely to “look around,” he agreed.

A well-proportioned, tall, middle-aged man sat in the armchair across from Jenkins, his gaze sharp. A fire crackled in the hearth beside them. Above the mantelpiece hung a pair of crossed foils and a hunting rifle, next to which was a meticulously framed detective's license.

It was like a scene straight out of a detective novel—one of the agency's marketing tactics.

“My name is Jenkins Williams.”

He introduced himself first. The man opposite him nodded, signaling for the lady taking notes to write it down.

“Hello, Mr. Williams. My name is Dick Ován. Please, tell me about your commission.”

He glanced at the records clerk and added, “Rest assured, we never disclose our clients’ information.”

If Jenkins hadn’t known about the first man infected by the Gear Disease Curse, he might have actually believed him... His voice was steady and slow, his expression serious. He looked like a highly capable and diligent man. The rıghtful source is novel⟡fire.net

Jenkins began to slowly spin his fabricated tale, all the while using his Eye of Reality to scan the vicinity for any spiritual glows.

“I live at 13 St. George Street. My next-door neighbor, at number 12, is a widow, Mrs. Margaret.”

He put on a conflicted expression, though in reality, he was just wincing at the taste of his coffee—they hadn't added any sugar cubes.

“Detective, I’m not one to meddle in other people's affairs, you must believe me on that. But this lady’s recent behavior has become increasingly odd... I’m a writer, so I’m used to staying up late. Over the past few weeks, before going to bed—around eleven o’clock or so—I’ve seen her rushing out of her house on several occasions. You know, with the weather as it is, even a young man like myself wouldn’t want to be out so late at night.”

This was all a lie. Jenkins had only noticed her lights were still on late at night multiple times. He intended to exaggerate the facts, have the detective investigate briefly, and then conclude that he was just being paranoid. That way, the matter would be dealt with, and no harm would come to Mrs. Margaret.

“So, when you saw her, were your gas lights on at home?”

The detective immediately zeroed in on the key detail, leaning forward slightly.

“No. After I finish writing, I usually turn off the gas light to save money before heading to the washroom. And after seeing Mrs. Margaret a few times, I didn't dare leave a light on in the dark... I live alone, with only this little cat for company, so I get a bit frightened.”

He feigned an embarrassed expression, stroking the cat’s back. Detective Ován nodded, seemingly in thought, but made no comment.

From the moment he had entered until now, Jenkins hadn't seen a single strange item in the detective agency. It seemed its connection to multiple cases was purely coincidental.

Jenkins then commissioned Detective Ován to investigate Mrs. Margaret. He claimed that he had been on edge lately due to writer’s block, so he wasn't sure if he was just being overly suspicious. Worried about disturbing an innocent neighbor—they were all respectable people, after all—he forbade the detective from directly tailing Mrs. Margaret or searching her residence without permission.

The detective was only required to conduct a peripheral background check, making the commission relatively simple. Jenkins wasn't concerned about the fee, as the Church would reimburse him for the full cost of the commission.

After confirming the details of the commission, paying the deposit, and agreeing that the investigation would conclude in two weeks, Jenkins was waiting for the receptionist to write a receipt when the agency’s main door suddenly opened. A woman in a floral-print dress and an extravagant sun hat walked in.

Her attire was completely out of season.

She looked very young, no older than twenty-five, with skin so fine you couldn’t see a single pore.

“Oh, Madam, you’re here.”

The female receptionist hurried to her feet to greet the woman, then, remembering Jenkins was still waiting, made the introduction.

“This is the owner of the agency, Mrs. Agnes Howard.”

She then quickly introduced Jenkins to the woman.