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Chapter 11
The Real Culprit
There wasn’t a shred of doubt.
It was that psycho.
The serial killer who murdered five authors in her previous life!
Since the sixth attempt—targeting Author Ham—ended in failure, Baron Ornio’s wife was effectively his sixth victim.
“Did your wife never mention this threatening letter while she was alive?”
Himena asked, trying hard to mask her grave expression as she spoke calmly.
“I only remembered after I found the letter yesterday. A few days before she was killed, she told me someone didn’t like the novel she was working on. She was afraid that person might try to hurt her. But then…”
The baron’s voice began to tremble.
“I… I thought it wasn’t anything serious. I told her you can’t please every reader, that she shouldn’t worry about it… I brushed it off. I forgot about it. Who would have thought this would happen… sob.”
At last, the baron broke down, tears spilling freely.
“I see. Baron, it seems likely that the one who sent this threatening letter is the killer. I know it’s difficult, but do you recall anything—a suspicious person loitering around the estate recently, or perhaps something unusual your wife said before her death?”
Eron asked gently as the baron wept, shoulders shaking.
“Well… as you can see, this area is on the outskirts, far from the city. It gets dark quickly after sunset. Even if someone suspicious came by late at night, it would’ve been hard to notice…”
“Anne… was it? Did you happen to see anyone suspicious near the estate recently?”
Himena turned to the maid standing in the corner, looking nervous.
“Eh? Um… actually, about ten days ago, I was coming back from town… I saw a woman in a black cloak on horseback wandering near the house…”
“A woman in a black cloak?”
“Yes…”
“Anne! Why are you only saying this now?”
The baron snapped at her.
“Well, I thought she was just lost. When I got home, she left right away. Madam didn’t say anything about it, and nothing happened afterward, so…”
“Did you see her face?”
Eron asked urgently.
“No, she wore her hood low, so I couldn’t see properly.”
“Then how do you know it was a woman?”
“She was small, and I think… I saw some long blonde hair sticking out…”
“That’s it! She must be the culprit!”
Eron exclaimed, his tone decisive and indignant.
Himena, however, paused in thought before calmly asking the baron,
“Where were you on the day your wife was murdered?”
“Pardon?”
The sudden question caught him off guard, but he quickly answered.
“As I’ve already said, I was at home the whole day. Anne here can testify to that.”
“…Yes, that’s true. The baron didn’t leave the house that day.”
“Then why did your wife suddenly go into town that afternoon? I heard she usually bought paper and ink in the mornings.”
“Oh, that day… she made an unusual mistake. Normally she was frugal and meticulous, saving even a single drop of ink, but… maybe it was fate…”
‘Darling, what should I do!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I just spilled ink on my manuscript! On the final conclusion I finished last night!’
‘What? Oh no!’
‘I have to go to the shop right now! I need to rewrite the ending before it fades from my memory!’
“It’s my fault. I should’ve gone instead of sending her. I never imagined… that would be the last time I’d see her.”
The baron covered his face with a hand and sobbed quietly.
“Forgive me for asking, but earlier today I heard from a bookstore in the capital that your wife’s novel Home Within the Air was published in full. If the ending pages were ruined, how was it published?”
“Ah… yes. I hadn’t thought of that either. While sorting her study, I found the manuscript completed up to the ending. I suppose the one she spilled ink on was just a draft she revised later. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly the ending she wanted, but… it was her final work. And with the funeral costs, I had no choice but to publish it quickly. Thankfully the bookstore paid well, which helped cover the expenses.”
“I see. I also heard that as soon as the book was released yesterday, it sold out the same day. If the reprints continue, you won’t just cover expenses—you’ll be making quite a profit.”
“W–well… we’ll have to see.”
The baron looked visibly uneasy under Himena’s sharp questioning.
“Would it be all right if I had a look at your wife’s study?”
“…Of course. Though it’s really just a tiny attic room.”
He led Himena and Eron upstairs to the late wife’s study.
As he said, it was more like a cramped loft than a proper study, with a low ceiling. A desk stood by the window where she had written, with a small bookcase, a bed, and an old wardrobe.
On the desk, an empty ink bottle with a pen stuck in it and two neatly placed volumes of Home Within the Air sat on a wide dark stain—evidence of spilled ink.
“This must be Volume 2.”
“Yes. I wanted to show it to my wife as well…”
The baron trailed off, voice heavy with grief, as Eron picked up the book.
“By the way, the threatening letter was tucked inside Volume 1.”
“For the investigation, may we borrow these books?”
“Of course.”
The baron readily handed them over.
“Did the maid clean this room that day?”
Himena asked as she examined the carpet beneath the desk, where the ink stain spread widely.
“Yes. My wife left in such a rush that I had Anne clean it.”
After a brief look around, they left the room.
“Thank you for your cooperation today. Thanks to this letter, we may soon identify the culprit. You’ll hear good news before long, Baron.”
“Yes… I only hope we can soothe my poor wife’s spirit soon, Inspector. Goodbye.”
“One last thing. Forgive me, but may I ask what line of work you’re in?”
As the baron extended his hand to shake Eron’s, Himena’s eyes lingered on it as she asked.
“I… used to work in trade, but my health hasn’t been good lately, so I’ve stopped.”
“I see. Thank you again for your cooperation.”
Clip-clop, clip-clop…
The carriage rumbled toward the Silvester Ducal Estate in Caraphedon, with Lois and Eron’s lieutenant up front, and Himena and Eron sitting across from each other inside.
Eron sighed as he looked again at the threatening letter while Himena skimmed through the novel.
“Unbelievable. Who would’ve thought the culprit was a woman…”
“No, Inspector. This letter has nothing to do with the murder.”
Himena shut the book and spoke firmly.
“What? Nothing to do with it? But isn’t it likely that the serial killer you mentioned from the western continent is behind this? The threatening letter makes it obvious—”
“Whoever sent the letter, and whoever the maid saw in the black cloak, may very well be that serial killer. But they are not the one who murdered the baroness.”
“What do you mean…?”
“The letter demanded the story’s ending be changed, right? For the knight to choose the princess’s sister. That novel must be Home Within the Air. I skimmed enough to see it fits. If it were another novel, the baroness would’ve been killed much earlier. But the ending only came out yesterday. Six days ago, when she was murdered, the novel hadn’t been completed yet. So how could the killer have known the ending?”
“Ah… you’re right.”
Eron looked embarrassed, realizing he had focused too much on the letter without considering the publishing timeline.
“Then… we’re back to square one.”
“No. I believe the culprit is… her husband.”
“What? My lady, why do you think so?”
“Remember what I said at the crime scene? That the killer was likely someone familiar to the victim, not a stranger.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, as I observed today—six days had passed, yet a large ink stain still remained on the floor. That means when the ink bottle spilled, it likely splattered on the killer too. So I carefully checked the house floors, just in case. Of course, in an author’s home, finding a few ink spots isn’t suspicious. But the baron himself said his wife was frugal and meticulous, saving every drop of ink. And indeed, aside from the carpet under her desk, there were no stray ink stains in her study. Strange, isn’t it? The wife’s room was spotless, but the worn heels of the baron’s shoes were stained with ink.”
“What? Then…?”
Eron’s jaw dropped at her sharp observation.
“On top of that, many of his statements don’t add up.”
“Like what?”
“Think about it simply, Inspector. Imagine you’re writing something important, and you accidentally spill your ink bottle. What would you normally do?”
“Well…”
Eron pictured the scene in his mind.
‘Oh no! What a mess!’
The wife would immediately set the bottle upright and quickly blot the ink from the manuscript with another sheet of paper.
‘Ugh… what a waste. I’ll have to rewrite this whole page. And I just lost half the ink, plus two sheets of paper. Damn it.’
“Exactly. She wouldn’t just let two bottles of expensive ink pour out until they soaked the desk and carpet. Not to that extent.”
“Then…”
“The ink wasn’t spilled by accident. It was deliberately poured. Which means this is also possible—”
