Mahou Shoujo Ikusei Keikaku - Volume 9 - Chapter 10

General Pukin’s Case File: The Murder of the Mage

Beyond the morning dew, the sun was rising. A soft, glowing orange illuminated the lightning spire that stood over the government office. Night would soon turn to day. The city of London was foggy in the morning and foggy at nighttime. Get sick of the dampness, the only places to run were home or the pub.

When I turned at the crossroads, I passed by a lamplighter carrying a ladder. He was eyeing me suspiciously. My gentleman’s attire must have only seemed more dubious to him.

I wouldn’t have been walking around the back alleys at dawn, if not for work.

Three roads down from the main avenue and around to the back was a little theater known for its year-round amateur operas. I circled the building clockwise from the main entrance three times, then turned around to circle it counterclockwise once more and did a fifth lap clockwise before going to the back alley—as long as no one was watching me, the path would open.

The cobblestone street, the dim sky, and the theater all began to twist about as if melting, and after counting for three seconds, I was standing somewhere completely different. The sights were different—the smells, too. The temperature here seemed colder. No matter how many times I experienced it, I never got used to it. It felt nasty, like the queasy feeling of my insides jostling around from playing on the swing set as a child.

The mildewy, run-down theater was now gone, and in its place, there was a mansion. The property was surrounded by a tall rock wall, each side of which was a little less than 250 feet. The gates, which looked like fine metalwork, opened toward me. They were thick and looked sturdy.

I raised my hand to say “Cheers” to my younger colleague who was keeping watch by the gates. He was absentmindedly reading a newspaper but looked up when I called out to him. He seemed quite sleepy.

“Oh, they’ve even sent you? We’ll be glad to have you here.”

“They must want to make a show of their efforts by increasing personnel. How’s progress?”

“They say the next president in America will be Lincoln. Seems like a rather bothersome fellow, if you ask me.”

“I wasn’t asking about the progress of the American elections. I’m asking about your progress on the case.”

“There’s none, of course. The master here is in such a temper, ordering us to do something about things right this minute.”

The wealthy and aristocrats always assumed everything would operate conveniently for them. And when they didn’t, their ire would turn to those beneath them. As watchmen of the law, we were charged with very unique cases, those that involved direct contact with mages, mysterious beings who keep hidden from the world, so you might well call us chosen government officials. However, to mages, we were nothing more than inferiors.

“Well, I reckon it’ll be resolved soon,” I said.

“Oh-ho, so you mean to crack the case? Splendid.”

“Not me—the chief has called in a specialist.”

Neither of us would say anything disagreeable, like “They think so little of us. They’ve turned their backs on us. This was supposed to be under our jurisdiction.” We were in fact struggling enough that I wanted to abandon this case.

“Ohhh. A specialist? So there are such folk?”

“That there are. It seems it’s someone they rather don’t want a relationship with, though.”

Casually raising a hand, the same as when I’d come, I walked past the man. Which reminds me, I loaned him eight shillings in a bridge game, I recalled, but I could wait until after payday to tell him to give it back.

The flagstone path was covered with a row of arches that was twined with rose vines. I’m sure they were originally planted for nobler guests, but unfortunately, the guest today was me, no more than a humble minor official. Coming off the walkway, I went over a step to stand before the great door.

When visiting a mage’s residence, there was no need to call out or use the knocker. Royal courts and governments had maintained friendly relations with mages for generations, so there were established rules when it came to that sort of manners and comportment, and if you were someone who was aware of the existence of mages, you could get an audience.

“It’s Fatur, from the Intelligence Branch,” I called out with some reservation.

The large, black-painted door opened heavily.

Holding my hat under my arm, I stepped into the estate. The moment my toe touched the carpet inside, I felt as though a hand—no, something thinner, like tentacles—reached out to me through the soles of my shoes and into my body. It gave me the chills. Not being a mage, I felt quite awful. So then would a mage be all right? I couldn’t understand what went on in the head of a man who would live in such a sinister house.

Coming to greet me from inside was an old man who looked to be in his late sixties. Though any human in a mage’s estate would not necessarily be the age he appeared.

“Oh, hello,” I said.

“I am Allgrave, the butler of this here residence.”

Exchanging basic greetings, I reexamined the butler. Something like a stick protruded slightly from the bottom of his jacket. He probably had a short staff stuck in his belt. So then this man was also a mage? He was humble, considering that.

His back was not bent, and he was of sturdy build. He seemed healthy in general. His expression was one of worry, but he gave the sense that usually he wore charming smiles. It was what you’d call a butler face. His head was smoothly balding up from his forehead to the top of his head, and he was slightly shorter than average—my gaze was on a level with the top of his head. Perhaps he was a believer in the beard and that a long beard is the proof of a mage, as his was long enough to reach his belly button. For no particular reason, I gave the beard on my own chin a little stroke with a fingertip to smooth it down.

“I’ll show you in.” Going ahead of me, Allgrave started walking, and I followed after him.

The butler’s pace was leisurely. But considering his age, build, and his profession, he should be walking a little faster. He had to be consciously trying to calm down.

Deeper within the mansion, in front of a set of double doors, Allgrave stopped. He lowered his voice and whispered toward the room, but the voice that responded was as intense as an animal in heat. Apologetically, Allgrave prompted me to go ahead, and I entered the room.

“You’re late!”

I received no sort of greeting.

“My deepest apologies, sir. In delicate matters such as this, we narrow down the number of people involved, so the investigation has been—”

“I have no need of blathering or excuses!”

It was the master of the estate, Barnheim Hoggleton.

The end of the staff in his hand was fixed with a crystal skull with large rubies inserted in the eye sockets. His hooded robe was very much in the orthodox magician style, well-fitted and glossy like velvet—all very exquisite accoutrements. By contrast, as for the man himself—he did not comport himself like a fine mage. The way his face was buried in his hood, combined with the only slight growth of his mustache, was reminiscent of an opossum. Though he puffed out his chest in a domineering manner, he was a head shorter than Allgrave. He was lacking in stature and had a sort of pinched expression on his face. There was an all-black human-shaped “something” that stood beside him like a shadow.

Since I’d looked over the report before coming, I had a general idea of his character. However, now that I was actually speaking to the man, I understood that whoever had written that report had shown the utmost restraint in their description.

Hoggleton was, basically, a swindler. Thanks to his distinguished family, he had all the connections the generations of his ancestors had cultivated, and he made use of them to introduce villains to villains, making poor folk in trouble his prey in order to fatten his own coffers. Blackmail, extortion, loan-sharking, fence work, human trafficking—even simple rumors of those acts that never reached the public eye would be too many to count on both hands and feet, but even so, he was never caught. With connections to families in high places, the generous hush money he gave to government officials, and clever maneuvering, Hoggleton always kept himself safe.

And in the role of the most direct form of protection, there was also the black shadow that stood by his side. It was a service daemon he had paid someone playing at Doctor Frankenstein a hefty sum to cobble together for him. It was a repulsive black all over, with slippery-smooth skin, and long, sharp claws that could have no other purpose than violence. It was too imposing to call a familiar. Even if someone were to stand up to attack this man out of righteous anger or personal grudge, just one glance at this beast would most certainly send them spinning right around again to leave.

“Why must I be forced to suffer on and on in this misery? I can’t swallow my meals for shuddering at the thought of the murderer who could be anywhere! I can’t sleep at night!”

Seeing Hoggleton’s fury as he carped on and on about one thing after another—at every little act of laziness from our office, how much he was paying in taxes, and why he wasn’t getting the recompense that befitted those taxes—turned my heart to ice. This was really going to kill my inclination to the case.

After that, I listened to his opining for a full fifteen minutes, until finally, he guided me to the scene of the crime. The room, which was normally used for meals, was spacious; a long oak table sat in the center, and each wall was decorated with a big painting. I don’t particularly consider myself a man of the arts, but I doubt they were anything made by famous painters. In fact, they were rather like the scrawls of a child. Ignoring the master’s bragging on and on about how “I received that from one of the Three Sages, the great Puk,” I went into the room. Even after two days, the scent of blood still remained. It smelled of burnt things, too.

The state of the crime scene had been documented in the report.

The victim was Missus Hoggleton, the wife of the master of this estate, Mister Hoggleton.

Two days earlier—the day of the incident—a guest had come to the Hoggleton estate. It wasn’t a particularly unusual guest. He was just an old friend, and he’d informed his host of his coming beforehand. Mister Hoggleton had welcomed the guest, and then after about twenty minutes of chat, when the subject turned to his wife, he had realized she wasn’t there. He’d had the servants search the house, wondering what was going on, and upon finding this room was locked from the inside and that there was no response at all, even when they called through the door, he had been forced to order a servant to break down the door, whereupon they were faced with the sight of the lady, dead and cold.

The body had been underneath the table. I squatted down and peered underneath. A part of the rug had soaked up the blood and stained the orange-and-white pattern a dark crimson. The body had already been taken away.

The murder weapon was a knife; the victim had been stabbed in the chest. It was a butcher’s knife normally used in the kitchen. The length of the blade three inches. Anyone from the mansion could have picked it up.

The lock on the door in this room was simply the kind where a little knob was twisted from within. It wasn’t made with a keyhole to open with a key from the outside. There were no windows and no fireplace. The locksmith who had been brought over had guaranteed that if the knob or the door were removed, it would leave signs, no matter how it was done. The possibility that the lady had locked the door herself to commit suicide had also been discarded. She’d been stabbed in the chest with the knife multiple times, with multiple wounds that could be fatal. No matter how energetic she was in her suicide, she would die before she could stab herself that many times.

The top of the table had been piled with ash. From the slight burned scraps that remained, they had learned it was from promissory notes for debts, and when Mister Hoggleton had checked the safe, he’d found most of the promissory notes to be gone. Dozens of papers had all been burned to ash, leaving only little scraps, and upon opening the door, it had blown everywhere, scattering all over the room. They said it had not only gotten on the table, but on the carpet, chairs, people, walls, and the door, dirtying as far as the ceiling and inciting Hoggleton’s rage.

Whenever there was a mysterious crime in a place that involved mages, one would first suspect magic. Unlocking spells, locking spells, cursing the knife, instantly transporting the body, walking through walls, or any various other methods—with magic, one could create a situation that would normally be impossible.

But it was not magic. That was the problem.

The whole of Hoggleton’s estate was protected by a powerful magic barrier. Magic could not be used inside the house. That was the repulsive sensation I’d felt earlier, like my innards were being sloshed around. Normally, a mage’s mansion would not have such a barrier. Of course. To a mage, not using magic, doing odd jobs and everything else by hand, was an embarrassment. But Hoggleton prioritized his sense of safety over his pride as a mage or his convenience. Since he made a living doing dirty work, he would have a lot of mage enemies, and he ranked the safety of being able to protect himself from magic higher in priority than inconvenience or eeriness.

Not only mages but also familiars, golems, all types of magic items, and even the service daemon Hoggleton used could not make use of any special magic in this house. The daemon could only use its innate physical strength to tear things apart with its claws, but that was enough, as long as it was merely his bodyguard.

A house where magic couldn’t be used. A service daemon that could cut humans apart like paper. Hoggleton had secured his own safety, but unfortunately, he had failed to be attentive to his wife as well.

A terrible fate for his wife, but you could also say she had brought this on herself. If Hoggleton was a swindler, then his wife was a swindler as well. Even before their marriage, they said she’d taken part in a number of his ploys and had even made use of her feminine wiles to help him ensnare his marks.

Since it was uncertain if Missus Hoggleton had been killed over her involvement in her husband’s affairs, the first suspects were anyone who might harbor any lingering resentments toward her. Furthermore, from the fact that the culprit had burned up the promissory notes, those who had borrowed money from Mister Hoggleton were also under suspicion, so a number of inspectors had been dispatched to those people. Missus Hoggleton normally was in charge of the key to the safe, and on the day of the incident, it had been lying in front of the open safe. Kill her, and one would have been able to get the key—in other words, that meant anyone would have been able to open the safe. Though we got Mister Hoggleton to tell us who he was lending money to, he clearly had more debtors than there was ash there, so evidently, he was engaged in the lending of intentionally hidden funds. Was he lending to aristocrats, or was there something more sinister going on? Whatever the case, because of uncooperative aristocrats, the investigation was struggling here, too.

But still, the investigation team’s greatest suspicions were of the people within the estate. There were multiple reasons for this: the fact that the culprit had brought the knife out from the kitchen without drawing suspicion, burned up the promissory notes using the knowledge that the missus held the key to the safe, and murdered the wife inside the mansion. It was rather unlikely for an outside debtor to do all of these things. A debtor more closely affiliated with Hoggleton would have both a motive and knowledge of the affairs within the household. And since this was Hoggleton, it wouldn’t have been at all strange for him to be tying down his own servants with debts.

While attempting to soothe Hoggleton, I looked around the room. There was nothing more than what had been in the report.

When I went to investigate the outside of the room next, Hoggleton followed me, dogging me with repetitive fretting all the while. He must not have wanted to leave me alone in his house.

“I say, having you lot loitering about when you’re not even going to be useful, I can’t relax.”

“My apologies, good sir. I beg your patience for a while.”

He was being quite aggressive, but this was also the flip side of cowardice. His fear that he could be next won over the sadness of his wife’s death or the anger of his promissory notes having been burned up. It didn’t appear to be an act.

I had already heard that Hoggleton was uncooperative. Until I had met him, I’d had some suspicions, but after seeing him—there are things one understands, upon meeting a man. This man was nothing like the culprit. There was no deception here, and he was sincerely frightened. His uncooperative attitude was ultimately because he would be in trouble if his own wrongdoing were to get out.

What a bother. Could I blame the boss for relying on a contracted specialist?

I strolled about the house, examined the property, then returned to the scene of the crime. It was all as the report had stated, down to the letter. Hoggleton was continuing to gripe and moan.

While dodging Hoggleton, I took out my pocket watch on its chain to check the time. It was almost noon. Being inside a mage’s house really does throw your sense of time in disarray. If Hoggleton wouldn’t arrange for lunch, then I had to get something for myself.

With my mind on the upcoming meal, I was slow to notice.

There was a girl on the other side of the cracked-open door staring at me. Her gaze overwhelmed me; my mouth hung half-open, and I was unable to ask who she was or question her—I just looked back at her. She was wearing a patch-covered dress like a beggar, but for some reason, it was rather fetching on her. Despite her shabby clothing, she was a beautiful girl. Her beauty seemed artificial, not like something that could be natural-born. Her skin was a sickly white, and her dull gray eyes had an inner glow to them. The fringe hanging over her forehead was a dull gray, like her eyes.

The girl looked at me silently, and I silently looked back at the girl. We continued to stare at each other wordlessly for some time until eventually, I heard footsteps coming from behind. Then Hoggleton spoke up.

“I’ll show you in. I can’t have you simply strolling on in ahead.”

And now, finally, Hoggleton noticed her as well. His eyes turned to the girl, and with an expression of shock, he cried, “Who let you in here?” His ability to question her at all was impressive.

“We have allowed her presence.”

A shadow loomed below the door, which immediately opened. Allgrave appeared together with the owner of that voice. The patchwork girl went to embrace the newcomer gladly, and Hoggleton really couldn’t criticize her now, opening and closing his mouth two, three times before he expelled a long breath. But still, he glared at the newcomer, asking hoarsely, “Who are you?”

“My name is Pukin. This is my attendant, Sonia Bean.”

A waterfowl feather was stuck in her bright-colored hair. Leather gloves, leather boots, pure white tights, a satin weave cape. From her waist hung the sort of ceremonial rapier you would only ever see in a Three Musketeers stage play, and she wore a large, old-fashioned ruff collar that strangely suited her. Clothing from an earlier era was a common odd habit of mages, but this was no mage. Was she one of the magical girls I’d heard rumors about?

Hoggleton clicked his tongue. Many mages had a distaste for magical girls. I’d heard that they selected girls with potential from among the commoners and lower classes and used new technology to create beings akin to mages. It’s rather nasty to despise the thing you yourself made, but perhaps it was that they didn’t like having experimental animals being in the position of equals.

I didn’t know enough about magical girls to have any distaste for them. My impression on seeing them for the first time that day was fearsome. Mages could be exceptional researchers, or foolish, wealthy gentlemen, or intolerable aristocrats—no matter what mysterious magic they used, there was something about them that was easy to understand. There was nothing like that in Pukin and Sonia. A sense of tension like that of a wild beast and the charm of a fairy were forced into a coexistence within them to create these monsters. No matter how adorable they looked, they were repulsive, but nevertheless, one couldn’t take one’s eyes off of them. They would make one want to watch them forever.

“We have taken on the request to resolve the incident that’s occurred in this estate.” Pukin was as bold and dignified as if she hadn’t heard Hoggleton’s tongue clicking at all.

Concealing my private unease and slight excitement, I said to Pukin, “Oh-ho, so you’re the one who accepted this job? It’s a pleasure to have your assistance on this case.”

Unfortunately, my voice was hoarse. The inside of my mouth was bone-dry.

Pukin, the magical girl who had just introduced herself to me, boldly puffed out her chest with the fearless stance of one who knew there was nobody around who could look away from her. She was aware that she was the center of the world—but the scent of blood hung thick about her.

“We thought we might have lunch first. Has it not been prepared yet?” she asked.

“Out of the question!” Hoggleton yelled hoarsely. He had to understand that this was someone he should not oppose, but since he was in a position where he had to make himself appear strong, he’d made his bed, and now he had to sleep in it. “Isn’t there something you should be doing before eating?! I can neither relax nor sleep until you find the culprit! I feel like my heart is tearing apart if I am unable to avenge my wife!”

Pukin narrowed her right eye to shoot Hoggleton a fierce expression. He began to turn around before realizing he was in no position to run away and then looked back at her. The service daemon scooted out in front of its master. I signaled to Allgrave with my eyes: “Best not to let these two stay in the same room.”

Allgrave said something to his master, and then I passed through, cutting between Hoggleton and Pukin to say, “Right this way,” as I tossed a smile at Pukin and Sonia.

“Lunch?”

“Yes. Wait just a bit, please.”

I ran up to a maid whose eyes were still on the floor and grabbed her shoulder. The maid, who’d been watching Pukin with a dazed expression, lifted her face in surprise, then looked up at me. I moved my mouth close to her ear and whispered, “Prepare a meal—anything will do. Actually, it would be a mistake to say ‘anything.’ Make the finest meal you can as quickly as you can and hurry. Arrange a space for us to eat as well. Yes—the empty room beside the kitchen. There is best.”

I gave the maid a little push to rouse her—not arouse, mind you—into action while I accompanied Pukin and Sonia to the room by the kitchen. Five minutes later, pork pies beneath wafting steam arrived, and they dug into it—Sonia with her bare hands, and Pukin with a knife and fork.

The pies had been prepared in such a short time that they must have been warmed-up leftovers or some such. Well, if the pair eating them had no complaints, then all would be well.

Pukin cleanly devoured the large serving of pork pie on her plate, while to me, she gave that aforementioned look that would make anyone who saw it shudder. “This can’t be all?”

With utmost effort, I subdued the trembling that was trying to come out of my body, answering with a smile, “Yes, of course.”

I gave instructions to the maid, ordering her to just bring whatever they had, sandwiches, cutlets, or anything. Right now, I might not even turn aside a glass of tar-water.

“By the way…how should I address you?” I asked Pukin.

“Call me General, or Your Excellency, however you please. We will generally forgive mild rudeness.”

“Thank you very much, General Your Excellency.”

Though I have had interactions with mages, I’ve had none such with magical girls. I only knew of them from extremely one-sided rumors.

Surely they couldn’t all be such characters. If that were true, it would be ever so much fun. I would love that, personally, but the general public would likely not.

Pukin and Sonia just ate. They ate, ate, ate, ate, and drank so much, I wondered where in their slim bodies they were fitting it all, and Hoggleton’s estate pantry hit bottom before the pair could be satisfied. The maid reported apologetically that they were out of food, and Sonia and Pukin looked displeased, but not enough to become angry, which was a relief to me. When I checked the time on the clock, it was far beyond lunch and closer to afternoon teatime.

“So you will be solving this case, General Your Excellency?”

“Mm-hmm. We shall resolve it within the day.”

Wasn’t it rather unreasonable to not check the scene, eat as soon as she arrived, and then say she would resolve it within the day? I’d heard that magical girls had special power, but in this house, they wouldn’t be able to use any magic to solve the case.

“How much do you know about the incident?” I asked her.

“Nothing. Tell me.”

I explained in full everything that seemed necessary. But though Pukin listened, she gave only the most half-hearted replies. She certainly appeared to be listening, but she really didn’t seem to have any particular thoughts about the case and was tickling Sonia with a finger under her chin. But it wasn’t my job to call her to task for her attitude.

“Yes, as you know, it’s quite the inexplicable situation,” I said.

“Inexplicable? Really?” Pukin finally turned to me. She looked absolutely baffled.

“You disagree?”

“I’m good at torture.”

Ahhh. Now this made sense to me. Being associated with the establishment and with such a strong air of blood about her, I had assumed she was a soldier, assassin, executioner, or something, but if she was a torturer, then, well, I could understand that. That would also explain her arrogant attitude. In the Magical Kingdom, generations of aristocratic rank were required to obtain the post of torturer. The torture of mages had been forbidden for quite some time, but it was still done against ordinary folk. Perhaps this magical girl had originally been a personage of some importance?

“That’s exactly why I can reveal lies,” Pukin explained.

“I see. Since your profession is about making liars speak the facts.”

“Solving cases such as this isn’t my principal occupation. But I’m not bad at it.”

Suddenly, I wondered—if they were having a torturer resolve this, then would there be torturing?

Pukin looked over at me, and her mouth twisted with malice. “Are you uneasy?”

“What?”

“You needn’t worry. There’s no need for torture, with a case this simple.” With a flutter of her cape, Pukin stood, and the scraps of food on the table were flung to the corners of the room. “Wait with anticipation. Let’s go, Sonia. Time for work.”

The two of them left the room they’d made a terrible mess of, tossing food everywhere during their meal, and I watched them go.

Two hours passed. It was getting dark outside, while the lamps had been lit indoors. By Pukin’s order, we had gathered at the crime scene. “We” meant myself, two colleagues, the butler, a young maid, a somewhat young maid, a not-so-young maid, a maid of about my mother’s age, the washerwoman, the stable boy, the cook, five or six other servants, and Mister Hoggleton, who was constantly complaining and still in a temper, along with his service daemon, as well as the attendant Sonia.

Checking that essentially all related parties had gathered, Pukin solemnly began to speak—then snorted as if dissatisfied. “This room is too small. This is far too meager a stage for my elegant solving of this mystery.”

“General Your Excellency, I beg your generosity in this matter…what with the number of people involved.”

“Hmm. Well, I shall tolerate it. Now then, I shall speak of what really happened in this incident.”

Everyone in the room murmured.

“Magic cannot be used inside the mansion, and the victim was murdered by someone in a room that was locked from the outside. It seems you all have been making a fuss about how mysterious or inexplicable this is, but what’s hopelessly mysterious to me is how you can’t understand such a simple contrivance.”

Pukin kicked up the long table that stood in the middle of the room. Yes, frighteningly, she kicked it up. The long table, which would have required multiple men to carry, flew up close to the ceiling, and as some were covering their ears, closing their eyes, opening their mouths wide, and various other reactions of shock, the ground rumbled, and the table hit the floor on its side. Before Mister Hoggleton, the owner of the table, could rightfully yell at her for it, Pukin squatted, grabbed the long, furred rug, and tore it up.

Mister Hoggleton must have been trying to say something, but no words came out, his eyes wide as he just opened and closed his mouth. And since the owner of the house wasn’t complaining, there was no one to stop Pukin. With the rug ripped up, she stomped on the exposed floor with a “Hmph,” breaking through the wooden boards in one strike.

“Behold.” Her fingertip pointed where she had broken through, and we all lined up around the broken floorboards to peer down.

“…A hole?”

However far the hole went, bored into the earth beneath the floor, simply bringing a lamp over to shine into it wasn’t enough to see the bottom. It was quite deep.

“As you can see, it’s an escape hole. The culprit killed the victim, twisted the knob from the inside to lock the door, and went through the escape hole that was cleverly concealed under the floor to flee this room. Now then, as for where it goes… I have already investigated that matter, as well.”

Pukin left the room, and we all followed after her. Mister Hoggleton was clenching his teeth but wasn’t grousing or complaining about the violence against his floor, rug, and table. We headed down the mansion’s corridor, passing through the great hall, and walked out through the large front door to the outside. Lamps in their hands, the servants moved swiftly forward even in the dim light, and the procession continued from the garden to the washing area, and from there out to the backyard, where we finally stopped.

Pukin spread her arms wide and began to speak in sonorous tones, like an actor. “The entrance was here. A truly clever—”

Someone sneezed choo very cutely. It was Sonia. With all eyes turned to her, she shyly rubbed under her nose. The dirt on her gloves smeared there, and Pukin moved her right hand from where it had been resting on her rapier to pull a handkerchief from her chest pocket and wipe under her nose for her.

Then, without touching on how she’d just been interrupted, Pukin continued. “A truly clever method was used to conceal it.”

As ordered, Sonia dug up the earth with a shovel, and about two feet down, it hit something that wasn’t earth with a clunk. Dropping the shovel, Sonia began digging with her hands, and the men, who had been entranced by her incredible shovel skills, helped her scoop out the soil, exposing a board. To me, watching from above, it looked like a lid.

“Lift the lid, and you see this.”

The hole continued into deep darkness, just like we’d seen inside. One of the investigators said, “I’ll take a quick look,” and jumped inside. I squatted down to investigate what of the hole I could see from there. When I stroked the edge of the hole with my finger, something like black soot came off on it. Five minutes later, the investigator returned, dirty with earth, saying, “Indeed, it does continue onward.”

“Er, but…” The butler Allgrave hemmed and hawed like there was something incredibly difficult to say, and his gaze flicked over to his master. Mister Hoggleton closed his mouth and shut his eyes.

“Yes, this is in front of the master’s room.” Stepping over the hole, Pukin knocked twice on the window. The curtains inside shuddered. She continued: “To dig a hole from here to that room, one would have to dig out the earth and carry it away. It’s quite a lot of work. Even if it were done late at night, away from the eyes and ears of others, it would be impossible for Hoggleton, sleeping here, to have failed to notice.”

Pukin dropped the “Mister” from Hoggleton’s name, but nobody, including the man in question, rebuked her for it. Pukin slowly raised her arm to point at him and declared, “You are the culprit.”

Everyone around him backed away, and Mister Hoggleton smiled weakly. His shabby beard was listing downward even more shabbily. “I can still feel in my hands what it was like to stab my wife… Every time I was alone, I thought perhaps if I met judgment, that feeling would fade a little, but I just…I just couldn’t turn myself in…”

Still hanging his head, he muttered a few words under his breath, and instantly, the service daemon beside him raised its hand and slammed Hoggleton into the ground.

The service daemon was sliced to pieces. Pukin drew her sword, and seeing her in a ready stance, I understood that she’d sliced up the creature in an instant. As the maids were screaming and the servants were running away, I ran up to Hoggleton, who was lying in a puddle of blood. He was in such a state, it would be absurd to even think he was still alive. The top half of his head had been shattered, and blood was spurting out from the carnage.

“Case closed. I’d call this a happily ever after.”

I lifted my head. Pukin’s grin could turn the blood in one’s veins to ice. I tore my eyes away, and turning to where Pukin was looking, I saw Allgrave standing there, frozen, with an expression like he had swallowed lead.

Having murdered his wife, but still tortured by the guilt, Hoggleton had ordered his service daemon to attack him. His suicide had succeeded most dramatically, and though it had left behind a bad aftertaste, the case was closed. The entire investigation team received a thorough tongue-lashing by the boss for having utterly failed to notice the hidden tunnel. They were spending the day griping about it at the pub.

We returned to boring old mundane lives. It was incredibly rare for a mysterious incident to happen someplace like the Hoggleton estate, where magic couldn’t be used, and we of the Intelligence Branch were now spending another day playing bridge behind the boss’s back.

“When are you going to return that eight shillings?” I asked. “Payday was three days ago.”

“Once I paid two months’ worth of rent, most of my income was out the window. Give me until next payday.”

If he was thinking his losses by the next payday would still be just eight shillings, he was a naive man. With the goal of squeezing him until he needed a whole guinea to repay me, I faced the game of bridge, and around when that loan of eight shillings became two shillings, we called it a night. It was always like this.

Going to my bed, as I looked up at the sooty ceiling of my cheap lodging, I thought back on things.

Hoggleton had dug a hole to create a room no one else could enter, murdered his wife, and once the truth came out, he had killed himself. It was simple—a simple farce, or so it seemed to me.

Hoggleton was, to be blunt, a bastard. Killing his wife was one thing, but he wasn’t such a laudable character that he would be possessed by guilt, and even if his crime were exposed, I doubted he would acknowledge it so easily. With a man like Hoggleton, even if he were made to stand on the gallows, he would continue to insist that he didn’t do it. But I had only known him for a day; if I were more up-front about my feelings, I would be gently chided with something like, “Yes, that was one side of him. But he wasn’t that kind of man.” However, I’m certain: He was a real bastard.

When I thought about what had happened that day, the faces of those two magical girls rose in my mind.

Pukin and Sonia, who had seemed dissatisfied with the amount of food that had been served to them.

When Hoggleton had killed himself, Pukin’s expression had been completely different from the shock of those around her… Her grin that stretched from ear to ear like she was enjoying herself, like she was glad—even just remembering it sent shivers down my spine.

Sonia had gathered attention while Pukin had been talking. She’d wiped under her nose, and dirtied it with earth. That meant there had been earth on her gloves. Why? Wasn’t it because she had been ordered by Pukin to dig that hole? Magic couldn’t be used inside that mansion, but you surely could use magic underground, beneath the building. With magic, one could have dug out that long escape tunnel in a short period of time without anyone noticing. One wouldn’t be able to go through the floor, and a hidden door couldn’t be made in a short time, but Pukin’s destruction of the floor had kept that from being known. She had made it out to be a “clever escape hole” that even the inspectors, masters in their craft, hadn’t been able to discover with their thorough search.

And there was one more thing about Sonia’s sneeze. The timing of it had focused everyone’s attention on her. Even I had reflexively looked over at her. I had immediately looked back at Pukin after, but that moment, Pukin’s right hand had been resting on the hilt of her rapier. I don’t think she had been touching her rapier before I’d looked over at Sonia. And Pukin isn’t the sort of character who would be so startled by her attendant’s cute sneeze that she put her hand on her hilt.

Just what was that rapier all about? If a magical girl was carrying a sword as if it was meaningful, then the blade surely was bestowed with some kind of magic. It wasn’t simply that it was sharp enough to cut that service daemon to pieces—for example, if it could control people’s behavior, then that would explain almost everything.

If she could make Sonia sneeze, then use the moment when everyone was looking away to control Hoggleton… If one assumed her deliberately leading all related parties out of the mansion was to use her magic, then it would all make sense.

If she had used magic to create the hole that day and used magic to control Hoggleton to make him confess and take his own life just to solve the case…then as long as the Magical Kingdom had the confession and circumstantial evidence, they would not make to investigate further. Everyone present that day believed Hoggleton was the culprit—I doubted there was anyone who would think otherwise, even if you searched the whole world.

If these speculations I indulged in before sleeping were close to the truth, then why had she framed Hoggleton for the crime? Was she executing a villain for the sake of societal justice? Had someone asked her to do it—was she an assassin to eliminate Hoggleton, because he was an obstacle? Either reason would have been plausible, yet neither felt right.

This is what I think. If Hoggleton had given Pukin enough food to eat, then perhaps he would not have met such a fate.

If that was the case, then who was the true culprit? Countless times, I formulated hypotheses, reeled them in, broke down each part, then reinforced them, building up to something that seemed it might just be the truth. I’d never done something of this sort before, but it was rather fun.

The culprit had murdered Missus Hoggleton. Using the safe key she carried, they had stolen the promissory notes. They had burned them down to ash on the table or burned them elsewhere and left the remnants on the table. Following which they had tied an oil-soaked thread around the knob or stuck it there with powerful glue. Passing it under the door, they would have put the opposite end of the string outside. They left the room, then after closing the door, they pulled the string, turning the knob from the outside. And then they ignited the string to burn the evidence. As for the resulting ash, the part of it that was outside of the room, they would carefully clean up, while the part that remained inside the room would be hidden by the scattering of the ash from the promissory notes. The odds were high that the burning of the notes was not the goal but an act of camouflage. If the culprit didn’t want to be among the list of suspects, then it was very unlikely they were a debtor.

This crime would have been possible for a maid, servant, stable boy, or cook to pull off. However, I remembered Pukin and Allgrave after Hoggleton’s death. I came to get a vague sense of who the culprit was. Pukin had figured out the truth but ignored it. She’d seen through the criminal and cast that aside as well, instead constructing a fake scenario for her own pleasure. That had to have been what Pukin’s and Allgrave’s expressions had meant then. Allgrave must have been scared out of his wits.

I rolled over in bed, still lost in thought. Pukin was very dangerous. Just a brief investigation of the data on her had produced a mountain of information. Apparently, before the Magical Kingdom started respecting a suspect’s human rights, she’d been considerably reckless… In other words, she was utterly fascinating. Having grown tired of my work and exhausted with life, I found her wild behavior invigorated me, albeit only for a moment.

The boss had been the one to request Pukin handle this job. He would know her contact information. I rolled over in bed once more, making a mental note to try floating the question the next day.