"I'm very pleased you could recommend a few promising individuals, Ms. Palmer. I hope that by the time I return, I'll hear good news. Better doctors in this hospital deserve to be in higher positions," Solomon said as he pushed open the door and exited alongside Christine Palmer. "Aura, reserve a table at Per Se for tonight. Don't forget to pick something you like—I'd hate for you to just stand there while we eat."
The moment she received the order, Aura turned and rushed off. Her high heels couldn't slow her pace—nearly a full sprint.
She couldn't stand being assigned a security task without wearing her powered armor or carrying her heavy explosive rifle. Now that she had received permission and confirmed the area was secure, she didn't want to wait another second. Still, she would keep the suit and heels, because every part of this outfit—down to the black stockings—had been chosen by Solomon as her official uniform. Her entire wardrobe was filled with uniforms that suited Solomon's tastes. An artificial being existed solely to fulfill the needs of its creator—that was what Dana had taught all the androids.
Aura accepted this teaching as absolute truth and followed it to the letter, never once questioning whether the doctrine made any logical sense.
The nurse's anatomy grades were excellent, and with one look, she could tell that the young white-haired girl in the black suit had muscle tone that no ordinary civilian could possess. She immediately understood this girl was not some office assistant or driver, but a bodyguard with a special function. Still, she wasn't too surprised—after all, any wealthy man who could acquire a hospital in such a short time would naturally prioritize security.
The only thing that puzzled her was the small metal ring she noticed on Solomon's arm while measuring his blood pressure. She didn't understand why he would implant such an electronic component in his own body, but out of respect for her future superior, she didn't ask.
Tomorrow, Christine Palmer would officially join the hospital management. She had also recommended a neurosurgeon to Solomon. Although the doctor's skills weren't on par with Stephen Strange—and Strange often looked down on him for it—he was extremely patient with patients and highly responsible in his work. Christine believed he could be a solid assistant.
Solomon readily agreed.
Nothing was more unbearable for a man like Stephen Strange than being placed under the authority of someone less skilled—someone he'd once belittled. Christine Palmer might have seen it as a way to push Strange to become a better person, but to Solomon, it was a humiliation calculated to crush Strange's arrogance.
He had no reason to oppose it. With the time to bring Strange into Kamar-Taj drawing near, he had to finish breaking his confidence as quickly as possible—to teach him that "unearned power invites catastrophe." If that failed, he'd have to turn to the private detective in London. At least that man possessed a thing called "responsibility." Tony Stark had that too, which was why Solomon was willing to talk and trade with him instead of tossing him out.
"Mr. Damonet?" Solomon smelled the aroma of tea.
He opened his eyes to see a plainly dressed man with graying hair holding two cups of tea. One was offered to him. Aura was protecting his alchemical duplicate. The android knew Solomon had sent a duplicate to complete another task but didn't know which one. Solomon hadn't provided a reason, and she assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that the duplicate didn't need protection. Solomon just hoped she wouldn't be angry about it later—even androids had tempers, and they weren't always easy to soothe.
The parlor was papered in dark red, cozy but not cramped. To the left was a small room filled with chemical apparatus and equipment. Beside it were a fridge and cookware, making it clear this was a kitchen—but one used for other purposes too.
"Sorry about the small cups, but that's what Mrs. Hudson uses when entertaining guests. I added sugar, no milk, just the way you wanted," the man said, handing Solomon his tea before taking a seat in one of two soft chairs on the rug. "My friend hasn't returned yet. You know, off investigating a case. In the meantime, why not tell me what brings you here? That way we can save time when he gets back."
"Oh, actually I'd like to hire both of you to investigate a case..." Solomon slowly sipped the tea and began to recount, from a third-person perspective, a recent murder in London committed by a vampire. The perpetrator was young and held a legal identity in human society. Solomon thought this case would be a good way to ease the alternate candidate into the magical world while allowing him to observe the man's qualities in the process. He had left numerous subtle clues and intended to guide the candidate to his intended destination. Solomon had to assess whether, if the first option failed, this alternate would be viable.
Private commissions for homicide investigations were rare, but Solomon had a convincing false identity to serve as cover.
"The victim suffered massive blood loss, but very little blood was found at the scene," Sherlock Holmes burst through the door, hung up his scarf and coat on the rack, and launched into the mystery without even acknowledging Solomon. "Lestrade thinks it wasn't the primary crime scene, but I found evidence of a struggle. The blood on the victim's knuckles matches the smear on the wall, so that must've been where it happened. So, where did the blood go? Even if the killer had porphyria—oh. Who are you?"
"Sherlock, I was just talking about that case," said Watson, rising awkwardly and motioning to both men. "This is a distant cousin of the victim, Eleanor. He's here to handle her affairs... Sorry you had to hear all that. You must be upset. That's just how he is—I hope you won't take offense..."
When Solomon reached out his hand, Sherlock Holmes didn't shake it.
Instead, he stared blankly at Solomon and rattled off his deduction. "I don't believe you're Eleanor's cousin, Mr. Solomon Damonet," he said. "Setting aside the physical differences between you and the deceased—Eleanor was impoverished and worked as a nightclub dancer, while you're clearly wealthy, even owning a gray short-haired cat. If anyone were to handle her affairs, it wouldn't be you. Also, it's raining outside, and a storm drain a block away is clogged. Yet your shoes are spotless. Your umbrella is only wet at the front, bone dry at the back. That suggests you were standing under an awning and just reached it into the rain—not someone who just dragged luggage from the airport. More like a local."
He coughed, then added, "More importantly, you stopped at the café down the street for over an hour before coming here and read the newspaper the whole time—confirmed by the owner. I can see the breadcrumb flakes on your cuff and smell the coffee on you—strong enough to overpower your cologne. You think I wouldn't recognize the aroma I smell every day when I open the window?"
"But you rarely open the window."
"Now's not the time, Watson."
(End of Chapter)
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