Priest Marvin

"Dead?!"

In the still of the night, Marvin looked at the several police officers before him in disbelief, "How did they die?"

"We don't know."

"When did they die?"

"We don't know."

"...What do you know?"

"We know that you're one of the suspects."

The leading officer flashed his revolver at his waistband, a far more advanced tool than the flintlock pistol, belonging to the new era. Its rotating cylinder could hold five bullets, and with its simple construction, misfires were not a concern.

"So, are you coming or not?" he asked.

"I'm coming."

Marvin answered without hesitation.

Hearing this, the officer smiled, lowered his lifted clothes, and called over the carriage.

This tactic almost never failed. Whenever they encountered a case, as long as he showed his revolver, the suspects would either cooperate meekly or turn and run.

For those who ran, he wouldn't hesitate to draw his gun and drop them with a single shot, then...

he could declare the case closed.

Quick and clean, and he would still have time to enjoy a drink at the tavern after work.

Unfortunately...

It seemed he wouldn't get his wish today.

Riding in the shaky four-wheeled carriage, Marvin and Yuniya were driven to One Hundred and Fifty Five South Street under the watchful eyes of the two policemen opposite them.

On the roof ridges on both sides, countless tiny figures followed closely, nimbly leaping across the gaps between houses, one after the other, silently and endlessly.

"Big Brother Kitty, our master has been taken by the police; should we take action?"

While watching the carriage below, Little Black sought Fat Orange's opinion, "It's just four policemen; we could surely end the fight instantly if we swarm them!"

"Take action? Do you want to kill all the policemen down there?"

"Even if we don't kill them all, we can't just watch as they take our master... Our master is innocent, Kitty!"

"If he is innocent, why would you snatch him away before the case is settled?"

"What if those policemen frame our master... They don't seem too bright to me!"

"Even if you snatch him away before the case is concluded, you might save him, but you will also make him bear the stigma of murder," Fat Orange said gravely, "Humans society has their own rules, we must not act rashly. If these policemen dare to frame him and pin baseless charges on him, that will be the time for us to take action. Understand?"

"Meow... understood, Big Brother."

At 8 p.m., Marvin, who had no idea about the conversation between the cats, arrived again at South Street, at the door of the house numbered One Hundred and Fifty Five, which was crowded with people, all dressed in identical green tailcoats. Curious eyes peeked through the half-open doors and windows on either side.

"Police Supervisor McMillan."

The officer responsible for detaining Marvin approached a tall, thin middle-aged man with a yellowish face and a turned-up brimmed hat, saluted, and said, "I have brought the suspect, Marvin Enders."

"Hmm."

Police Supervisor McMillan looked at Marvin, his hand tucked in his grey woolen coat, and asked routinely, "You are Marvin Enders, a priest of the Church of Truth?"

"That's right."

"Today at 2 p.m., what were you doing at Mrs. Maggie's home?"

Facing this normal and relaxed interrogation, Marvin's anxiety began to ease. The previous officer's ignorance had given him a severe mental shock, and although he knew that the police system of this era was messed up, when trouble landed on him, he still hoped to encounter someone reasonable.

Clearly, the Police Supervisor McMillan in front of me was an ordinary person.

"I was entrusted by the believer Jacob Valentine to resolve the conflict between him and Mrs. Maggie."

"What conflict?"

"About the ownership of the pet."

"Hmm, the same as what Jacob Valentine said."

Nodding slightly, Police Supervisor McMillan turned his head to the officer beside him, "Why hasn't the private detective Sherlock Holmes arrived yet? He came to New Ross City yesterday!"

"He should be here soon..." The officer scratched his head, "We sent someone to find him an hour ago."

Tap... Tap... Tap...

The sound of a cane hitting stone pavement came from a distance, its rhythmic melody sounding like jumping notes in a musical piece; it was clear the owner of the sound must be in a good mood.

Everyone, including Marvin, turned to look, and saw at the end of the cobblestone sidewalk the flickering red light getting closer and closer. Soon, from the shadows emerged a tall man holding a cane, a heather root pipe in his mouth, and wearing a black top hat.

"I smell the scent of a case," he said, "McMillan, what has happened here?"

"Holmes..."

Police Supervisor McMillan held his forehead with a bit of a headache, "I shouldn't have sent someone to find you, because you'd come on your own following the smell of the case... Didn't you meet any of my subordinates?"

"No, I was walking on the street, and somehow I ended up here," Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders, "Your face looks like a pickled saury... Who is dead?"

"Maggie Criss, who lives here, a home tailor. Her husband died of illness last year, and she has a daughter..."

Without much small talk and obviously aware of Holmes' temperament, Police Supervisor McMillan immediately began to introduce the background of the deceased.

After listening...

Sherlock Holmes, without even looking at the crime scene, held up three fingers, "I want to meet Jacob Valentine, Gilbert Wilkin, and Pharmacist Giuseppe Diaz."

"They're all here already, inside the house."

Police Supervisor McMillan had arranged everything and was just about to walk inside when he suddenly remembered something, paused in his step, and turned to Marvin, "Holmes, there is another suspect, Marvin Enders, the Priest from the Church of Truth, don't you want to meet him?"

"Why should I meet him if he's not the criminal?"

"He also visited the deceased's home this afternoon; he must be a suspect!"

"McMillan, look at his shoes and nails, clean and tidy, not a speck of mud, and he's well-dressed. Such a person usually has a serious obsession with cleanliness, and while I was walking, I noticed that South Street here is all wet mud. Just a few steps and your shoes get dirty and it's hard to see at night, it's easy to get mud on your clothes."

"So he couldn't have cleaned up the traces after committing the crime?"

"The body was found because of a dog barking, which means she died around 6 p.m. It takes at least 30 minutes to reach the Church of Truth by carriage from here, back and forth, he simply wouldn't have had time to clean up any traces, besides..."

Sherlock Holmes turned around, his grey eyes scanning Marvin up and down, finally resting on the little girl Nia beside him, "He brought with him a little girl, whose clothes and shoes are also clean, but there's some cream left at the corner of her mouth. This shows that she had dessert not long ago, and the kind of dessert that involves cream isn't cheap. To my knowledge, no confectionery in New Ross City sells cream pastries, meaning her cream dessert had to come from the home of a wealthy person, made by a professional pastry chef."

Surrounded by the stunned gazes of those around him, Holmes' mouth curled into a sly smile, "McMillan, at this point, do you still not understand?"

"Couldn't he have left his daughter at home and come out to commit the crime himself?"

"You still don't get it..."

Shaking his head, Holmes sighed and said in a low voice, "Well-dressed with an obsession for cleanliness, Marvin Enders cares greatly about his appearance, and such a person usually has a deep awareness of their own status, often called 'image consciousness,' and wouldn't typically commit a crime personally, especially since there's no mud on his shoes, making it nearly impossible for him to have walked to South Street on foot. Just ask the coachmen in town if he came to South Street last night. Secondly..."

"If he can let his daughter have cream desserts, it shows he isn't lacking money or knows some wealthy person, and has a good relationship with them, intimate enough to let his daughter go and feast at their house."

"Let me ask, why would a Priest who maintains an image, pays great attention to his conduct, and has connections with wealthy people, and seemingly doesn't lack money, have any reason to murder a family tailor living in the poor South Street? He has enough resources and contacts to make life unbearable for the other person without needing to kill anyone!"

In the midst of everyone's sudden understanding and admiration, Marvin's eyes gradually brightened.

He sought Truth, and he knew there are three types of it.

The truth of the soul, geometric truth, and... logical truth!

The private detective standing in front of him named Sherlock Holmes, with his clear logic and quick thinking, isn't he the very embodiment of logical truth?!