The streets of Old Dunling were crowded more often than not. Once someone started running, progress became painfully difficult—like a fish struggling through mud, thrashing with all its strength yet unable to move even an inch.
The great detective lengthened his stride. His figure cut through the crowd with an eerie swiftness, leaving those chasing him far behind. At the mouth of an alley, he turned sharply and vanished from sight. There, he removed his deerstalker hat, raked his fingers through his crushed pale-gold hair until it lay in wild disarray, then stripped off his trench coat and put it back on inside out. He dragged a hand across the filthy ground and smeared dust and muddy water across his face.
With a casual flick, he tossed his cane into a nearby rubbish bin, then dropped down beside a homeless man curled up in the corner. The vagrant was wrapped in a grimy blanket and sleeping soundly—until his dream was abruptly invaded. The detective forced himself under the blanket, pressing close as if they were brothers bound by shared misfortune.
Less than half a minute later, another group stormed into the alley. They made no effort to conceal the firearms in their hands, shouting curses as they ran past. Clearly, the sight of two wretched souls clinging to each other failed to capture their attention. They continued their search deeper into the maze of alleys.
About a minute later, Lloyd crawled out from the pile of refuse. The homeless man blinked awake, still hazy with confusion, when he heard a quiet "Thank you," followed by the clink of several coins landing before him.
Retrieving his cane, Lloyd adjusted his clothes as best he could, trying to appear marginally less disheveled, then strode back onto the street. Before long, a carriage pulled up in front of him and the door swung open.
"To be honest, Mr. Holmes," Officer Press said with a frown, "the smell on you right now is really not doing you any favors."
Press looked at the great detective with clear discomfort. The odor was like spoiled cheese and rotting fruit mashed together and shoved into an oven.
Lloyd, however, clearly didn't care. He had once crawled through Old Dunling's furnace pillar system—the ancient infrastructure built to prevent a second outbreak of the Black Death. The underground drainage was a labyrinth of elaborate mechanisms: timed injections of disinfectant, followed by blasts of steam heated to several hundred degrees.
He had nearly been cooked alive back then.
"But I imagine this will be quite welcome, won't it?" Lloyd said, producing a letter.
The envelope was stained and filthy, but the paper inside was pristine.
"Proof of Marquis Balov's bribery."
Press's hand trembled. He clearly hadn't expected the detective to be this efficient.
"How did you manage it? That man is extremely cautious."
The Suarlan Hall had been investigating Marquis Balov for a long time. He had embezzled a vast sum, yet a lack of evidence had prevented any arrest.
"I know. Guards around the clock. Forget getting him to talk—just seeing him is difficult enough."
Lloyd was brimming with confidence. He loved moments like this, moments where his competence was undeniable. Sometimes he almost wished they would beg him, ask him how he'd done it.
"But everyone has moments that are absolutely private," he said. "Moments when they're completely alone. You just have to seize one."
"Completely alone…"
Press's expression darkened as something unpleasant occurred to him. For a moment, it was as though he were standing in a lavatory, trousers halfway down, when a gun suddenly pressed against his head. Honestly, if it were Press, he would confess everything just to get his pants back on.
"What are you thinking?" Lloyd cut in quickly. "It was the bathhouse."
"One of the few hobbies that man has. Steam everywhere. I doubt he even saw my face clearly."
Lloyd looked thoroughly pleased with himself.
Regaining his composure, Press put the letter away. The carriage slowed to a stop. Lloyd drew back the curtain—Cork Street had arrived.
"So, same as before?" Press asked.
"Yes. The payment will be transferred directly to your account. Just keep an eye out for it."
Lloyd nodded, pushed the door open, and stepped down.
Old Dunling had fully entered winter. Everything carried a sense of desolation, the cold creeping into every corner.
More than half a month had passed since his conversation with Arthur. Lloyd had thought Arthur truly wouldn't keep him under surveillance. Yet the very next day, people from the Suarlan Hall appeared at his door. His Winchester had been pressed against it from the inside. Had the negotiator not been Shrike—the man in the wheelchair—Lloyd might very well have carved his way out of Old Dunling.
It was an invitation from Arthur. Officially issued in the name of the Suarlan Hall, it praised Lloyd's abilities and invited him to serve as a freelance detective, paid per case.
In truth, it was also a form of monitoring.
Lloyd had wanted to refuse outright—but the pay was simply too much. Enough not only to cover rent, but even to hire Mrs. Van Lude to cook his dinners.
He still remembered her first reaction: asking where he'd buried the money, how exactly one went about robbing a bank, and whether she could help drive the carriage. She might be old, but she could still hold the reins.
Right. Best to forget that damned old woman for now.
Beyond the money, Arthur did his best to show goodwill. Old Dunling opened countless shortcuts to Lloyd—doors that would have otherwise remained closed.
And so Lloyd became a somewhat legitimate detective. At the very least, his name was officially registered with the Suarlan Hall.
Officer Press, whom he'd met a few times before, became his point of contact. Lloyd had assumed it would be Eve, but according to Press, the poor kid had apparently been confined by Duke Phoenix.
Pushing open the door to 121A Cork Street, the stench clinging to Lloyd mixed with the clean scent indoors. It hadn't bothered him in the carriage, but in that moment, a wave of nausea hit him. He barely managed not to retch—after all, Mrs. Van Lude had repeatedly emphasized how expensive the carpet was.
He struggled up to the second floor. At some point, the door across the hall had cracked open. Lloyd was puzzled—until a faint snoring sound drifted out.
Only then did he realize it.
His long-missing roommate was still alive.
Fine. Best not to disturb the overworked corporate drone freshly returned from some "007 mission." Lloyd entered his own room, dumped his clothes into the basket, and climbed into the bathtub.
To be honest, Lloyd suddenly felt that his life had finally become… normal. No trips to the lower districts. No drawing a gun and killing people. Clocking in at the Suarlan Hall every day to investigate cases. Perfectly normal.
So normal that it felt abnormal.
Even now, he still couldn't quite believe that his life would truly settle into peace.
"Ah… life really is beautiful," Lloyd murmured.
His gaze wandered idly, until it stopped at the doorway.
He hadn't closed the door—this was his room, after all. But at the far edge of his vision, sitting on his favorite sofa, was someone.
The familiar blend of shock and fear welled up—yet instead of panic, it left behind a strange, wordless resignation. Lloyd wasn't sure how much she had seen. He might have been shameless, but the sight of himself stripping naked and scrambling into the bathtub was hardly flattering.
"When did you get here?" he asked.
The girl thought for a moment, then shifted into a more comfortable position.
"I've always been here."
Ah… how annoying.
Covering his face with one hand, Lloyd sank deeper into the tub. As if delivering the finishing blow, the girl's perpetually cold expression twitched—her lips lifting ever so slightly. It was less a smile than a cruel, icy mockery.
"Honestly," she said, "you really stink."