It turned out that having a glowering standing behind you when you were conducting interviews significantly increased the quality of answers museum employees were prepared to give. Whereas before, there had been a sullen, resentful taciturnity in response to his questions, the various , , and Lowe reinterviewed now had all manner of observations to offer. None of it was especially helpful to his investigation, but at least they had opened up somewhat.

“What can I say, little man? I’m a nice guy. People instinctively feel the need to tell me things.”

Lowe wasn't sure about that. Although it might well have been the Warder’s winning personality loosening tongues a touch, he wasn't sure that told the whole story. Or maybe it was the Warder's habit of drawing his sword and looking at it affectionately when there was some hesitancy in their answers. Either way, his presence was proving to be effective. The Warder's narrowed eyes could sweet-talk a confession out of a rock if it didn’t crack from the pressure first.

When they had returned to Soar Museum, Lowe had passed off Latham’s presence as a "consultant" to the disinterested Level 14 at the front gate. Mind you, as the spotty youth manning the post didn’t even lift his head from his scroll, Lowe didn't think the subterfuge was worth it. He thought the lad barely looked old enough to be trusted with a whetstone, let alone security for an entire museum. He would have expected—three murders and a vanishing in—there would be a ramping up of protective measures. Maybe a ward or two, at least an angry guard dog with a taste for intruders. Instead, they were greeted with a wave so indifferent it could have been a light breeze.

Lowe wasn’t sure if that lack of concern was a good sign. Perhaps Nuroon had nothing to hide, or maybe it was just another display of the Director's overbearing arrogance. A man with too much to hide often compensates by acting like there’s nothing to find. That’s the thing about arrogant men—they always think they’re clever enough to keep everyone else in the dark.

Three bells of interviews later, Lowe was feeling the weight of tedium pressing down on him. As helpful as the museum employees were now being, none of what they had to tell him was particularly useful. And under Latham's glare, they were now enthusiastic in their unhelpfulness, a feat of human nature Lowe had never quite appreciated until this moment. Fear was a fantastic motivator, but it didn’t necessarily improve quality.

Lowe had been interested in testing his newly allocated stat boosts—nothing like a murder investigation to put those to use—but so far, nothing glaringly new had popped up. It was all the same script: "We don’t know anything. We saw nothing. It must’ve been Martha Culloden." It was like being trapped in a room with a malfunctioning echo charm.

If any of them had thoughts as to why a hitherto meek and mild - a middle-aged woman with no history of serial sociopathy - had suddenly gone off on a whole-scale slaughter-fest, none of them felt able to offer it.

“What about Harker? Did he seem off the night he died?” Lowe asked, for the umpteenth time, over and over again, hoping for a shift in the wind.

“No, sir, Harker seemed his usual self,” came the predictable, dreary replies, multiplied across a variety of faces as dull as their answers.

When the last of the scheduled interviewees had left, Lowe had turned to the Warder. “They must save their creativity for exhibit displays. Sounds like Nuroon has them well drilled.”

Latham gave a smile at that. “Short of asking them outright if they thought Harker might have known his murderer, you couldn’t have put it much plainer. They had every opportunity to offer alternative theories, but they seem pretty settled that this woman is the big bad. They don't know why, of course, but they seem happy to throw her - on mass - to the sharks. No one who works here has got ideas of their own?”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“At least they’re consistent with the various timelines,” Lowe muttered, rubbing his temples. “I don’t for a moment believe Martha Culloden is behind all this, but... well, all the evidence does suggest she’s the most likely suspect. And she's been off grid ever since—during which time someone whacked Kregg. It's not going to be easy to convince anyone she isn't at the heart of this. Especially now she's gone missing herself. Convenient, really.”

“Convenient doesn’t murder people,” Latham replied. “But it sure makes for an easy case for the powers-that-be to wrap everything up nice and tight. Nothing to see here. Just a little workplace snafu. Still, it’s odd. No one here’s even remotely interested in why the blasted woman might have gone on a killing spree. Most folk who go around massacring their colleagues at least have some sort of personal vendetta to work out. Here, they’re shrugging it off like it’s a blip in payroll. And why necrotic slime? There are easier ways to earn XP if that's what is at the heart of it all. And why wipe out Kregg after the other two?”

Lowe leaned back in his chair, frowning at the thought. “I’m sure someone here must know more than they’re saying, but with the memory wipe around the events that led to Delphina’s death and the way everyone’s closed ranks around Harker’s death, it’s like we’re looking at shadows on a foggy night. If it weren't for Preece and Verlick hinting that something more is happening, I'd think we needed to close the whole thing down. And I'm not sure their motives in speaking to me are all that pure, either.”

Latham raised an eyebrow. “So we’re chasing ghosts again, are we?"

Lowe smiled at the big man's use of 'we' in that sentence. He hadn't realised how much he had missed having the about to bounce ideas off. Throughout his career, he'd never put too much truck with working with partners, but he was beginning to see the point. And it wasn't just not having to worry that someone was going to randomly kick his arse. It was nice to be able to speak aloud and have someone answer. “Not ghosts, exactly,” he replied, “but I'm certainly wondering how much the missing Dreadnaught might be involved.”

Lowe stood and began pacing the small room, pulling threads and snatches of statements from Grid View as he did so. He felt doing this was a little easier since his upgrades. It still wasn't quite to the level of insight he was able to reach before his Classtration, but he was definitely within touching distance. A broad smile broke out on his face at that thought. Yeah, fuck you, Council of grey faces. How do you like me now?

“Okay. Let’s break this all down a little. We’ve got three deaths, but something is telling me the first is the key. Considering all the upgrades I've recently had, I'm comfortable going with my gut here. The death of Delphina is the only one anyone has tried to do anything to properly hide. The night she vanished, Harker was left as a blob of rotting flesh in Culloden’s office. And then Kregg was murdered in his own room just after he’d spiked me with necrotic slime. Someone wants us to read more into those events than I think is there. Let’s put those two aside for the moment. I think we’ll need to reconstruct what happened around Delphina’s death if we want any hope of shaking something loose about why the later murders were needed. You never know; maybe reconstructing what happened a month back will break through someone's memory wipe. I’ve heard that such things can happen.”

“Well, with that boost to your Luck, little man, you never know.”

Lowe grinned again, though it was a touch thin this time. He’d rather not rely on Luck to solve murder cases. If he had little trust for gods, he had even less for a stat that seemed to have little or no impact on his daily existence. “We can start with what Wyst pulled together about the day the sarcophagus was opened, along with Lant’s notes on the injuries to the girl. It’s not exactly an ideal way to reconstruct a scene, but it’s a start.”

“Hey, as long as you don’t end up with another corpse to add to the exhibit, I suppose it’ll be worth it.”

Latham opened the door for Lowe, checking the corridor beyond. It was empty. The museum was quiet in a way that only places filled with the past can be—echoing with the silence of things long gone. And maybe, just maybe, the sound of someone preparing their next step to keep their crimes hidden from notice.

“This bloody place does seem to be touched with ill luck,” Latham added, “but I doubt the killer will have another go while we’re around.”

That, as it turned out, was a remarkably unprophetic remark.