Priest Marvin

"Father Marvin, you may go now."

After listening to Sherlock Holmes' deductions, Police Supervisor McMillan said, "I will arrange for someone to take you back."

Actually, McMillan knew that he shouldn't let Father Marvin leave the crime scene before the case was closed, but he trusted Holmes and was aware that the case could be solved even without Father Marvin's presence.

"May I stay and listen?" asked Father Marvin. "There is a suspect here who is a member of the Church, and I would like to know what happened."

"You may."

McMillan nodded, "You're involved in the case and have the right to know the ins and outs. Come in with us, just don't disturb Holmes' thoughts."

After expressing his thanks, Father Marvin followed behind them with Yuniya, entering One Hundred and Fifty Five South Street. Everything was normal when he had arrived in the afternoon, but in less than half a day, Maggie Criss had died in her home.

Far from taking pleasure in others' misfortune, Father Marvin simply marveled at life's unpredictability.

The dark and disordered living room was littered with shards of cups and vases. The police officers, with stern faces, stood in every corner holding oil lamps, trying to light up the room as best as they could.

The body of Maggie Criss lay flat on the floor, covered with a white cloth. Her 7-year-old daughter, clutching Peppy, sat on the sofa sobbing softly, her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty.

"We haven't determined the cause of death,"

McMillan said gravely, "The body is strange, all appears normal externally, with no signs of trauma or poisoning. The victim's daughter said that her mother was writing a letter in the living room and halfway through, she suddenly started screaming like a madwoman, twisting in strange poses as if performing some bizarre dance. After a few minutes of this episode, she collapsed and died."

Listenting to the supervisor's account, Sherlock Holmes squatted down in front of the body, slowly lifted the white cloth with his cane, revealing a corpse with a ghastly expression.

Maggie Criss had her eyes wide open, her mouth agape to a degree that most would find unachievable, her hands stiffened like claws, her expression frozen at the moment of her death.

"Hmm...."

With a pipe in his mouth, Holmes pondered for a moment and then asked, "What did she eat today? And when?"

"Two cups of tea, three slices of bread with butter, half a piece of salted meat, and a small piece of cheese—all consumed during breakfast and lunch. She only had a cup of tea in the afternoon, around 5 o'clock."

"Where's the tea?"

Police Supervisor McMillan gestured to an officer, who promptly brought over a can the size of a human head. Upon lifting the lid, it was filled entirely with tea leaves.

Pulling out a magnifying glass from his coat pocket, Holmes started closely inspecting the tea leaves in the can under the dim light of the oil lamp. After a while, he put away the magnifying glass, leaned over the can, and sniffed its contents.

"Is there a problem with the tea leaves?" asked Police Supervisor McMillan.

Without answering, Holmes suddenly reached out, grabbed a few tea leaves, and put them in his mouth. After chewing twice, he spit them out and said, "There's a faint musty smell, storage time exceeds three months... Non-toxic."

McMillan broke out in a cold sweat at Holmes' sudden action. "Holmes, could you not use such a method of testing poisons on yourself? What if the tea leaves were poisoned?!"

"In my memory, there is no colorless, tasteless poison that can cause a victim to scream maniacally," Holmes said calmly as he set down the can of tea leaves. "Such poison usually kills without a trace, but the victim's mouth, nose, and skin would show symptoms of change. Maggie Criss did not die of poisoning."

"Do you know the cause of death?"

"Years ago, I came across a similar situation in a remote countryside of the Fudo Kingdom, where the cause of death was also undetermined, and the victims would dance frantically until death," Holmes exhaled a puff of smoke, closing his eyes, recalling. "The locals called it the curse of the witches, making it sound very convincing, but it was actually someone using a scorpion to sting the victims. If suddenly a scorpion crawled into your clothes, you'd have to dance a tango to celebrate, wouldn't you?"

"...Are you joking?"

"I think it's quite interesting," Holmes smiled. "Generally speaking, behind any death case disguised as witchcraft, magic, or retribution, there are human factors. But this case is strange... Maggie Criss indeed has no signs of being bitten by anything, nor was it poisoning... I don't know."

"You don't know?"

McMillan looked at him in shock, "Sherlock Holmes actually saying he doesn't know?!"

"I am a human, and humans have gaps in their knowledge. This touches upon one of my blind spots."

Shrugging his shoulders, Holmes expressed his own helplessness, but...

"Although I am unclear about the specific cause of death, that doesn't hinder me from finding the murderer. If we can catch the murderer, won't everything come to light? McMillan, go bring the three suspects here."

At the police supervisor's gesture, someone went to summon the three suspects. During the wait, Yuniya gently tugged on her father's sleeve and whispered, "Daddy, there's something strange lying on Mrs. Maggie's body."

Marvin looked at the body and saw nothing but a white cloth on top; where was this strange thing supposed to be?

"Really!" Yuniya said, jumping up and down, "It's looking at you right now!"

"..."

Marvin absolutely did not disbelieve it—after all, the gods stood right by his side. If such unrealistic things could happen, was it so strange for a monster to be lying on Mrs. Maggie's body?

But he couldn't see it.

In the whole room, probably no one but Yuniya could see that monster.

"Meow..."

His shoulder sank as Marvin felt something jump onto it. He turned his head and his nose bumped right into Fat Orange's large rear end.

"Don't move."

Just like Yuniya, Fat Orange stared intently above Mrs. Maggie's body... its expression serious.

Little Black had arrived too, jumping onto the windowsill. Together with Fat Orange, they blocked both the doorway and the window, ready to spring into action.

"Looks like a tough opponent..." Marvin murmured.

"What are you afraid of with us and the Goddess here?"

Fat Orange licked its lips, its eyes shining, "Just a little ghost."

"It's not fear, it's pain."

"Pain?"

"Could you perhaps retract your claws? They are pricking my flesh."

"...Sorry."

Fat Orange withdrew its claws into its paws, flicking its tail, eyes still lingering on the space above the body, ready for action.

Unaware of what was happening, the police and Holmes were still waiting for the arrival of the three suspects. The room was terrifyingly quiet, with the faint sound of tobacco burning.

Squeak... Squeak...

The noise from the stairs broke the silence, and under police escort, Jacob Valentine, Gilbert Wilkin, and Pharmacist Giuseppe Diaz walked into the living room and stood before Holmes.

"Jacob Valentine stays, the other two, please wait in the kitchen."

His gaze swept over the faces of the three men, capturing every expression, and Holmes said with a smile:

"I'm going to question you separately."