Chapter 126

It was the same person who'd escaped from the city watch hospital.

Unlike their last encounter, where she'd pulled a hat low and layered thick clothing to disguise her build, this time she'd done none of that. A thin shirt, light trousers. Even the shoes were women's flats.

Last time, driving the carriage in a violent frenzy, she'd kept the hat on to the end. Today she showed no hesitation about baring her face. Usually, when a violent criminal like this didn't mind showing her face, there were only two reasons for it.

Either she was cornered enough that a face didn't matter,

Or she'd made up her mind to kill whoever saw it.

Her prim face wore a smile so bashful it was sickening. The kitchen knife trembled faintly. And at odds with that demure face, fierce eyes swept over Harold. There was a savage intensity to them — less beast than raptor eyeing prey.

Without bothering to set her stance, she came straight for him. Her movements were violent, as if the smoke wasn't reaching her at all. Perhaps Harold's empty hands had emboldened her.

In an instant she kicked off the wall and launched herself, going for his throat.

Harold drew his dagger just as fast and blocked. Instead of knocking the knife aside, he pressed into it with force and kept after her. She held onto the blade, backed a couple of paces, planted a foot on the wall — and just when it looked like she'd push him off, she hooked her leg around his arm and twisted. She wound up practically perched on his arm and shoulder.

The angle apparently didn't work for the throat, so she brought the knife down at his face. The point aimed straight at his eye. Harold caught her arm with his other hand and wrenched. The blade just grazed his skin.

Her wrist snapped. But the smile at her lips didn't fade. She didn't drop the knife either. As if she felt no pain at all.

She twisted at the waist. With one arm still caught, Harold had no choice but to be pulled along by her weight. Not far enough for her purposes, apparently — she had to unhook her leg and let go. The moment Harold's grip slipped, she seemed to open some distance — then transferred the knife to her other hand and lunged again.

He couldn't take this one alive.

Every thrust of the blade went straight for a vital point. She could switch positions in an instant with no run-up. She swung up onto a lamp in the corridor ceiling, vanished into the smoke, then dropped straight down for his head.

Take away the fact that her weapon was a kitchen knife, and her movement, her read of the situation, her tenacity — all of it put her among the top handful of opponents Harold had ever faced. Right. That was why he'd lost her right under his nose.

Cleaner to kill someone like this on the spot than let her escape again. Fewer complications after.

Harold spun the dagger a half-turn in his hand. It wasn't the one he usually carried — it was one of the pieces they'd taken off the flunky playing coachman. He'd made a point of getting it back from the Intelligence agent.

Dagger and kitchen knife clashed. With blades that short, close-in fighting was unavoidable. The smile hadn't left her lips. She'd shown no reluctance to hide in the smoke, but no human could shrug it off entirely — a cough forced its way out mid-motion.

Harold seized the moment.

"……!"

Blood spurted. The knife started to fall. Before it could hit the floor, she moved her broken-wristed arm and caught it.

So that knife was her only weapon. That much was clear.

"……Damn."

She looked at her bleeding arm, mildly put out. He'd severed the tendons. That hand wouldn't grip anything anymore.

She'd know better than anyone that Harold Bertholdt wasn't someone you could face with a broken wrist. She shrugged.

Her face, streaked with sweat and soot, was still smiling. But the faint tremor at her eyes said she felt the pain. It was the only thing about her that felt human.

She shifted her stance. Getting into a room meant more movement than she could afford. Harold wouldn't wait for her to open a door — that option was out.

The stairs were engulfed in flames. Going up wasn't wise either. With her hand out of commission, climbing higher would only make escape from the manor harder. That was setting aside whether Harold would even let her get that far.

That left only the windows at either end of the corridor.

The one behind Harold was closer. But she'd have to get past him.

Going for the other window meant turning her back on him. Whether she had the nerve to turn her back on Harold Bertholdt was another matter.

Then again, even a jump from the window was no guarantee of clearing the ground-floor fire. Still, better odds than facing Harold here. Was she the sort to bet her life on odds that thin?

She shifted her weight onto her forward foot. Broken wrist or not, she could still take a few more strikes.

All of this thinking had passed in an instant. A few seconds at most.

Just as Harold hadn't taken his eyes off her, primed to answer any move, she'd been running through every option open to her.

The escape route with the best odds.

"……"

She gave a small smile.

Then, without hesitation, she drove the kitchen knife — still in her broken hand — into her own throat.

---

The old Bertholdt manor wasn't a wooden building. Its first and second floors — the manor's original core — were set on stone rather than timber. That was why it hadn't collapsed despite a fire of that scale.

The third floor, added later, was wood. Thankfully the old magic still held, and the fire hadn't spread up to the third floor. But that didn't mean there was no damage. Cleaning up the interior would take far more than a day or two.

Even with twenty servants, there was no telling how many days it would take.

Naturally, the servants' trip to the capital was postponed. They said they couldn't leave the manor in this state, and Harold felt the same.

On top of that, once the fire was out, they'd found traces of oil-soaked cloth and gunpowder. With arson confirmed, no outsiders could be brought in to help with the cleanup.

"For the time being, it can't be helped. Don't let outsiders into the manor under any circumstances — the shepherds included. You'll need guards, though……"

On that front, there was no choice but to accept help from Intelligence.

"I have to head back to the capital, but people will be coming to help with security."

"Understood, young master."

Diane answered, her face tight. The fire wasn't put out until nightfall; and only after sunrise could they see the full extent of it.

Everything was a mess. Harold included.

The dead woman in the third-floor corridor wasn't helping matters.

"Sir Bertholdt."

The Intelligence agent, Rena, came up to Harold. This time she wasn't dressed as a farmwife or in shepherd's clothes. Intelligence had no dedicated uniform, unlike the royal guard or the household guard. Mobility was a priority, but what Rena had on was formal.

Diane, having heard there was a body on the third floor, made herself scarce with work as her excuse. It was a quiet way of saying she'd rather not know any more about an unidentified corpse.

Part of her likely knew that knowing more would only put her in a bind. She'd been in service to a noble house long enough, in any case.

"Well now… I see."

Rena held up a dagger wrapped in a handkerchief, her expression knowing.

"It was lying beside the body."

"There were signs of a struggle. Falling out among their own?"

"I would think so."

Naturally, Rena knew the dagger. It was the one Harold had shown her after subduing the coachman. She'd even handed it back so Harold could take it with him.

Neither let it show. The exchange stayed smooth and matter-of-fact.

"Arson, and… hm. Murder, then. Any chance the woman was an innocent victim?"

"There's nothing on her that would identify her, so I can't say. We'll bear it in mind during the investigation. And she wasn't in the Bertholdt household's employ?"

Harold caught the faint humor in Rena's voice.

The shepherds who'd helped fight the fire were still wandering the grounds. Careful as they were, they couldn't speak plainly where anyone might overhear.

"Forgive me. I understand it's been some time since Sir Bertholdt was last down in the domain."

"There aren't many working here. I've seen them face to face over household matters. Most I've known since I was a boy."

"Just to be sure — you've never seen the dagger before either, have you?"

"Of course not."

Harold answered without batting an eye.

"The dagger's certainly a concern, though. Any way you look at it, that's the sort the military issues."

"Yes. Don't worry, Sir Bertholdt. As for testimony that you took the lead in fighting the fire……"

Rena glanced over at the Bertholdt servants watching them anxiously.

"……there's plenty of it. And the weapons issued at the northern base are a different specification from this, aren't they?"

"That's right. That kind is issued in the capital."

The city watch. The royal guard. Or the household guard.

"I'll keep you posted on the investigation. First priority is identifying the woman."

With this, they had grounds to investigate the household guard. The captured coachman and warhorse alone had been a bit thin.

But an arson at a noble house's manor, with a body found alongside it — and outside capital jurisdiction, no less. The city watch had no opening to step in. Intelligence could move freely with no one in their way.

Rena smiled with satisfaction.

"I know cleaning up after the fire will be a great burden, but we do have to investigate. We'll wrap up as quickly as possible."

"Carry on. Oh — my things are in the manor. I can take them, yes?"

"Are they intact?"

"They're in a section the fire didn't reach. They're fine."

"So long as you don't touch the body, it's fine."

Harold went up to the next floor by a makeshift ladder rather than the burned-out stairs. The state of the old manor left a bitter taste.

Even once it was restored, it wouldn't be the manor he'd wanted to show his nephews. That, more than anything, sat wrong with him.

Still, the rooms the fire hadn't reached were fine. Thankfully, Albrecht and Cecilia's room was among them.

Harold glanced at the closed door and walked past.

After what had happened in the capital, who'd leave anything valuable in a safe. Naturally, he'd checked and emptied it the day he arrived at the manor.

As he'd expected, there was nothing significant. Albrecht wasn't the sort to leave anything valuable at a manor he barely visited.

Finding something like that wasn't why Harold had come to the old manor in the first place. He'd checked the safe and Albrecht's room only because it would've been odd not to, given he was here anyway. It wasn't much effort, either.

"……So why did he leave this one behind, of all things."

There was, however, one thing he couldn't ignore. He'd kept it on him from the moment he'd found it. That was how little he could make of it.

Harold pulled a small notebook from inside his coat and glared at it. His brother was surely laughing at him for this.

The notebook was crammed with Albrecht's handwriting. Like the journal from the safe at the capital manor, unreadable.