1

The door opened to reveal a liveried maid, a small brunette woman who looked at us intently in a short space of time before inquiring about the reason for our visit.

“I am the famous Inspector Goldeneye,” I answered simply, “and she is Moïra Marble.”

The maid cast a wary glance at the young girl.

“Welcome Inspector Goldeneye: my mistress is waiting for you... But I was not told that there would be two of you.”

The detail struck me: absorbed in my investigation and accustomed to continually putting up with the young lady, I had not realized that she had not been expressly invited. She blushed deeply and stammered a few random words before coming up with a coherent sentence:

“I... I'm sorry: I thought the invitation was for me too... And then, Madame Magister told me I could come see her whenever it suited me... I suppose that, indeed, this is not the time for a cooking lesson... That's not why I came, anyway...”

I sighed, but as my duty as a gentleman demanded and as it was not proper to let the young woman leave alone after having walked here with me, I came to her rescue.

“Miss Marble is accompanying me. As for the possibility of her attending my conversation with your masters, that will be up to them to decide. Have any of their friends arrived yet?”

The maid let us in before answering:

“Yes, Mr. Felix and Mr. Malevolum are already here. They are waiting for you with Mistress Magister in the great hall. I will guide you to them.”

After locking the door, she went ahead of us and led us through sumptuous corridors. There was a lot of furniture, often topped with rather ugly, but prestigious decorations. Marble busts of famous people, tribal sculptures imported from the lands of the Disc or even from the inaccessible lands of the men of Gard, elven trinkets emitting mysterious lights… Rich men often needed to show off this state of affairs with completely useless purchases.

The large living room was no less filled with these vain trinkets, but in a larger space and lit by chandeliers adorned with precious stones. The origin of their glow being hidden, I could not say if they were elven lamps running on Gas, or those new uses of electricity that were sometimes mentioned in the newspapers, but they were certainly not oil lamps or candles.

A warm blaze roared in a hearth as large as three men, a sort of glass wall separating the flames from precious carpets that covered the floor. There were several luxurious-looking armchairs and sofas and some of them were occupied. There were the three people mentioned by the maid, and I assumed that Mr. Magister must still be busy with some business. We were indeed slightly early, as I saw on a mechanical clock that adorned one of the walls.

Turning her head sharply in my direction, I saw several expressions evolve on the face of the mistress of the house. She seemed pleased at first, then having noticed who was entering, she scowled. Surprise was also visible when she saw Moïra, but this seemed to put her at ease because she gave her a look less full of suspicion than the one she gave me when I arrived. Regaining complete control of her appearance, she greeted us with a graceful curtsy to which we responded according to the decorum.

“Inspector Goldeneye. Miss Marble?”

Looking confused, Moïra immediately tried to apologize by stammering the same excuses as she had to the maid, but with more confusion and just as much blushing. This amused Madame Magister who placed a hand on the young lady's shoulder and reassured her: her presence was in no way unwelcome.

The other two people present, because the maid had left us, were not as polite but nevertheless greeted Moïra. Mr. Malevolum was the only one who did not speak to me, acting for the moment as if I was not there.

“Inspector,” the mistress of the house asked me, “did you meet my husband on your way here?”

The worry was written all over her face and it was contagious. A bad feeling was starting to form inside me and I turned to Moïra to see if she felt the same way. A look of confusion appeared on her face as she looked at me in her turn, indicating that she did not understand why I was looking at her and did not know whether to take it positively or negatively. I sighed inwardly: what did I expect from her? At least, if nothing serious had happened, she would be the only one who had not worried unnecessarily. I could see that the other two “dwarves” were also troubled, although the exact nature of their emotions was uncertain.

“I haven't seen him since the house burned down,” I replied, “did he go somewhere?”

“He went away for work. As we were returning, a messenger came to warn him that his team was having some problems with the development of their latest prototype. I haven't seen him since... But he should be here on time: he's always been perfectly punctual...”

All eyes turned to the clock: there were ten minutes left.

Mr. Malevolum moved away from the group and opened one of the doors of the room that opened onto another corridor. When I asked him about his destination, he answered me roughly:

“What do you think? I'm going to a place where no one can go in my place, if you know what I mean.”

It was then Moïra’s turn to slip away, citing the same reason. However, she was more discreet, contenting herself with murmuring a few words in a low voice to Mrs. Magister, who went out with her to show her where the lavatory[1] were.

I remained alone with Mr. Felix, but he was visibly uncomfortable, perhaps fearing that I would question him while the others were away.

“Oh,” he said, “there are no more cakes… I’ll be right back: I’ll ask the kitchen to bring us a new tray.”

“Are there no servants you could call for this task?”

“Well... Er... I could... But I prefer to tell them verbally how much to bring. I will be back shortly.”

Left alone, I paced the living room, contemplating the decoration and wondering if it could give me some clues, other than the fact that the masters of the house do not have very good taste. The clock continued to tick away the minutes.

A chime like that of a small gong indicated that the hour had been reached. Shortly after, Moïra arrived in the room, through the door from which she had come. Her gaze wandered around the living room in surprise, then she asked me with the ingenuous spontaneity with which she was familiar:

“Where are the others?”

“Isn't madam Magister with you?”

“No: hasn't she come back?”

Another door opened, allowing Ignis Felix and a servant to pass through. They were both carrying several trays overflowing with cakes that they placed on a round table that was in front of the fireplace. The rich owner’s cheeks were a little puffy as he finished chewing the cakes he had eaten on the way.

At that moment, Pluma Malevolum arrived and immediately glanced at the clock.

“Ah,” he said, “it’s time. Is he still not here?”

A heavy silence answered him. Everyone seemed to sense that something was wrong. Even Moïra seemed to be starting to worry; it was visible on her face.

A minute passed like this, before Mrs. Magister entered, looking deeply worried. She explained that she had just come from the entrance and had been waiting for her husband to arrive with Saphira; that was the name of the woman who had opened the door for us.

“Perhaps,” I supposed, “he was delayed by some unforeseen event? We could begin this revelation session without him: which of you could begin this sordid tale of your past? Mister Felix?”

The man jumped and shoveled another handful of cakes into his mouth. Knowing that it was impolite to speak with one’s mouth full, he was giving himself a reprieve before having to answer.

Suddenly, a high-pitched scream echoed through the manor, startling everyone. A woman’s scream.

“It’s coming from upstairs!” Malevolum exclaimed.

We rushed toward the stairs, quickly joined by the servant who had brought the cakes, a man in his thirties with a thick black beard.

As we emerged onto the upper floor, Mister Malevolum, who was in the lead, bumped into Saphira, who was running towards us. The maid was in a state of shock and clutched at Malevolum’s vest, shaking, unable to speak coherently. She pointed with a trembling finger at an open door further down the hall.

The black-bearded servant frowned and commented:

“This is the master bedroom… What the…”

He didn’t finish his sentence as we continued on our way and discovered a sight of horror.

It was a fairly large room, with luxurious drapes and less bad taste than the parts of the manor where visitors might pass. On a large four-poster bed lay Circino Magister, his arms crossed over his chest. A stinger hole in the middle of his forehead indicated that there was no need for a specialist to declare him dead.

Mr. Malevolum cursed rudely at the sight of the scene. Mrs. Magister fainted and was caught in the nick of time by Mr. Felix. Without wasting a moment, I grabbed the black-bearded servant by the shoulder.

“You! What's your name?”

“Huh? I... My name is Spod... uh... Kunzite. Spod Kunzite...”

“How many people are here? Is there a way to leave the place without being spotted?”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The man blinked, apparently a little slow-witted in situations requiring reactivity. He finally told me that the staff of the place consisted of four people. Besides him, the servants included Saphira Corindon, whom we already knew. There was also the cook, Spin Emeri, as well as his assistant, a certain Croc Chrome, who was on trial. It was impossible to leave the manor without going through the front door, to which madam Corindon kept the key. Built into the rock itself, the structure had no windows.

As the scream had echoed through the corridors, the two remaining suspects were on the scene very quickly.

Spin Emeri was a very strong man but was almost sixty years old. He had a slightly grayed black beard and seemed in shock after discovering the murder. Croc Chrome was a young man with a red beard, probably older than me. I immediately thought that the color of his skin did not match that of the redheads I knew, but that could happen, unless he dyed his beard, which would denote a total lack of pride but did happen sometimes.

I ordered Mrs. Corindon to give me the keys to the house and demanded everyone to go to the large living room. Remaining in the murder room, I quickly found what I was looking for: at the foot of the bed, a shattered compass was surrounded by a feather, a kitchen knife and a candle. It seemed that the object representing one of the last victims frequently changed between a torch, an oil lamp or a candle.

The dead man held tight to his chest, between his crossed arms, the usual little piece of what seemed like poetry.

Four dwarves on the dead man's chest...

And one more gold!

The compass is frozen...

And one share less!

I found the chest on the bedside table, placed in the candlestick from which the fourth object must have been taken. I read its contents then went down to the front door. I opened it and took the police horn out of a lining of my coat and blew into it. The noise echoed through the galleries of the city and the agents of the Watch soon arrived. They were the sentries that I had had posted discreetly around the manor.

I learned that they had not seen anyone pass by and a brief inspection of the manor did not allow us to find any intruders. I therefore ordered them to guard the door while waiting for reinforcements to arrive.

2

As I entered the large living room, a quick glance told me that I didn’t need to announce “the murderer is among us”: a heavy and oppressive atmosphere reigned. Everyone was in their corner, at a relative distance from the others. I saw in particular that Madam Magister was on the opposite side of the room from Mister Malevolum and was looking at him angrily, her skin paler than before. She had a liqueur glass in her hand, empty, but didn’t put it down.

As soon as I arrived, Moïra rushed towards me and stayed as close to my arm as respectability allowed her.

“Ah, you’re finally here,” she murmured, “it’s terrible… Madam Magister accused Mister Malevolum of killing her husband… it’s true that it seemed that the two didn’t get along too well, but… In any case, he denied the facts… Do you… Do you have the answer?”

I placed my hand on the young woman’s shoulder and she fell silent. I felt the tension she was feeling diminish slightly at this cordial contact. The poor girl was quite impressionable at times, and the palpable atmosphere of distrust was upsetting her.

“I have some interesting elements,” I said, “but first I would like to clarify some points. Allow me to read the latest clue.”

Circino, even if we were equals, it was always you who was turned to for decisions.

More than anyone else, you are guilty of my death…

And all this, just because you were afraid that I would leave with the gold?

Where you will find us, we will all be equal, in the bad sense of the word.

The suspects had little reaction, except for Alba Magister who immediately turned a suspicious look on Pluma Malevolum. I also read the little poem and commented:

“More bad poetry.”

Pluma Malevolum glared at me, but said nothing. Considering the character, he could just as well be the author of these lines as be indignant at the visible suspicion that I was subtly expressing against him. In the first case, he remained smart enough not to betray himself by inappropriate words.

“Now,” I said, “I want to know who you killed and why. I already have the answer, but I would like to hear it from your voices.”

There was an awkward silence. Finally, Mr. Felix opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Magister beat him to it:

“So be it!” she said. “Let's get this over with. I'll tell you everything.”

“Wait,” Mr. Malevolum cut her off, “we should… talk about it in a smaller group.”

He glanced at the servants and the mistress of the house nodded in approval.

“Yes, that’s right… Oh… also… I’m sorry Pluma: I got carried away by my emotions earlier… I know that you and my husband often argued, but I also know that you liked each other despite that. To accuse you like that… I’m ashamed…”

Mr. Malevolum scratched his beard nervously.

“Yeah, yeah… I didn’t blame you, Alba. I know you didn’t think so… Still, I really thought before that Circino was the murderer, so I can’t blame you for accusing me now that he… Yeah… sorry too…”

I noticed that Mr. Malevolum, who was quite harsh with everyone, seemed to have a soft spot for Mrs. Magister, or at least a certain respect.

Granting to the request, I told the servants to go into the next room. The probability that they were all accomplices was practically nil, so I wasn’t taking a big risk. I nevertheless ordered them not to separate, under any circumstances.

Madam Magister then began her story:

“When you’ve lived as long as we have, there are always things you regret… Choices you should have made differently. Of course, some decisions are worse than others… I think that most people our age don’t have such a heavy weight on their conscience. My dear Moïra, I hope that I don’t seem… too monstrous to you for these… bad decisions that I made almost fifty years ago. When I think about it, neither you nor the inspector were born, maybe after even half that long.”

Moïra gave her a shy, encouraging smile. She and Madam Magister were only vague and recent acquaintances, but they seemed to have developed a very cordial relationship, to the point that the old lady was afraid of disappointing the young woman.

“We had brought back gold, lots of gold, mountains of it. In fact, we no longer really had a mine, but a treasure. We had then entrusted a craftsman with the task of making a solid chest equipped with an advanced mechanism. It was to be opened only on a specific date, each year, when we would meet to share part of the remaining sum. This thus prevented... uh... it prevented us... some of us, from wasting our shares too quickly.”

She sighed, acting a little more theatrically than necessary, as if her crime weighed on her and she had not committed it voluntarily.

“And then,” she continued, “we said to ourselves that the craftsman could very well access the chest without our knowledge, since he knew the secret mechanism...”

“Yes, added Mr. Malevolum, it was Pala S. who had asked the question first. I don’t say that to speak ill of the dead, eh, besides it wasn’t him who had… suggested eliminating the problem.”

“Indeed,” intervened Mr. Felix with a mirthless smile, “it was you.”

“It was a joke,” defended the notary, “or maybe just a cynical remark… But the idea made its way and we all agreed. There was Securis who refused to choose, but silence means consent. In short, yes, we killed the designer of the safe. Was it wrong? Yes. We shouldn’t have. Certainly. But, it’s an old story now. And we’re the only ones who know about it.”

Mrs. Magister got up with difficulty from her chair, her legs wobbly slightly. She walked over to a sideboard, from which she pulled out a small tray containing several small bottles of liqueurs.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I think I need another tonic. Anyone else want some?”

Mr. Felix and Mr. Malevolum said yes. I declined, seeing no point in diminishing my reasoning ability by ingesting an alcoholic substance. I declined as well for Moïra, because I knew she didn’t hold her liquor very well and became more annoying than usual after just one sip.

“Did that… chest designer,” I asked, “have any descendants? Anyone who might want to avenge him?”

Taking the glass that Mrs. Magister handed him, Mr. Malevolum looked appreciatively at the red and black velvets of his drink, probably a mixture of two liqueurs. For his part, Mr. Felix had received a glass containing a sort of sparkling mead. Mrs. Magister knew her friends' tastes well, which did not surprise me, from what I knew. I held back an untimely smile, as the moment of revelation approached. Well, partial revelation, because the culprit escaped my reasoning for the moment, for reasons that would later be obvious.

“No,” replied Mr. Felix, “he had no descendants, no relatives who could avenge him. Besides, we were the only ones who knew of our crime…”

“Of course,” I said, “since the only relatives who could have avenged him were his murderers.”

Mr. Felix nearly choked on his mead, Mr. Malevolum put his glass down on a small table for fear of breaking it in his emotion, and Mrs. Magister turned pale. They quickly pulled themselves together.

“What do you mean?” asked the notary. “What do you know?”

“Everything,” I said, “or almost. Your victim was one of your associates!”

The three criminals looked at me without saying a word, waiting for the rest of my revelation. I didn’t need to be asked twice and continued:

“Your association originally had nine members, as indicated by your company’s crest: the nine lines on the pickaxe handle actually correspond to the nine associate members, while the eight-sided diamond represents your previous association which only had eight members.”

They didn’t answer and I felt that they were anxiously waiting for the rest in order to know how far I had penetrated their secrets. I pointed a finger at Madam Magister:

“And the new member was you, madam. One might wonder: why would members of a mining company elevate their maid, since that was the position you held at the time, to the rank of associate? The fact that you married Mr. Magister, even if it was probably later, would not justify such conduct since it would amount to reducing the shares of the other partners for the benefit of the same couple. So, why this action?”

They still did not answer. Mr. Felix's gaze had lost all cordiality to become severe, Mrs. Magister could not turn any paler without taking on the color of snow and Mr. Malevolum drank his glass in one gulp while giving me a murderous look.

“The answer is simple,” I continued, “it is that there was something to hide. A theft. We will come back to that. It was therefore necessary to force the servant to silence. It would undoubtedly have been possible to kill her, but you were not yet at that level, at that time. Corruption remained the best way to force her to silence. You then went to Bruma and your friend built a chest there to protect your loot. A safe that would only open on a specific day, every year…”

“How do you know that?”

The sentence had escaped Mr. Felix's lips. Mr. Malevolum, who I would have thought would be quicker to answer, seemed to barely contain himself from vomiting his usual stream of disapproval, puffing out his cheeks in an almost comical manner.

“I could continue,” I said, “by giving the address of the bank where the safe is located and specifying that it is in any case only accessible through an elven door. I could also specify that this one only opens in exchange for a drop of fresh blood from one of the authorized persons.”

“I suppose that's where your investigation stopped…”

“Not really: this is second-hand information. As you know, the police have no power over the territory of the banks, without a warrant signed by the king himself. Their private army is also entitled to defend itself against such illegal intrusion.”

I symbolically brushed these considerations aside and resumed my story.

“So, rich thieves, you had a decent stash to settle in a foreign land. But doubt and suspicion came hand in hand with wealth. These tortuous thoughts made their way. What if your associate and friend, designer of this chest, went there secretly during the year and diverted the riches by some tricks, he who knew the secrets of the mechanism? Perhaps he would even leave with all the contents in order to settle elsewhere? Thus, greedy for wealth and poor in trust, have you murdered your friend.”

The silence that answered me was worth approval. Just an irritated cough from Mr. Malevolum disturbed the quietude, while his bloodshot eyes stared at me fiercely. He seemed on the verge of having an attack.

“You should, moreover, tell me the place where you murdered him. I would then know where Mr. Sternutatio was also killed and perhaps, I would discover some additional clues there…”

“Eh, what? Mr. Felix interrupted me abruptly. Okay, you found this: congratulations. But how does that help us in finding the culprit? Yes, we had killed Ultio Cophinus. No one can know because the company statutes are sealed and the notary who drew them up was Pluma, so no outside member. How does this event, so old, lead to today? You have found nothing, Inspector. The deaths will continue and nothing you have announced points to the culprit. Do you… Uh? ...”

He interrupted himself, disturbed by the violent coughing fit that suddenly shook Mr. Malevolum. The latter suddenly collapsed to the ground, falling from his chair. As he opened his mouth wide, a particularly dark stream of blood flowed out. A few convulsions later, the man was no longer moving, before I could even get close to him.

With a burst of laughter that showed madness, while tears were streaming down her face, Madam Magister stood up and pointed at the deceased:

“And there you have it! You pay for daring to murder my Circino!”

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[1] I can't find an English word that matches the formal language of my original version, so I've gone with this one.