The Londinium Banquet

(A fictional setting; interpret with appropriate latitude.)

(1)

Another Londinium winter, a dank, dim morning, the fog not yet lifted, when the black silhouette of a great ship emerged with indifference and slowly steamed into King's Harbor.

While the docks were still asleep, the ship's arrivals hurried out of the cabin, drew their black overcoats around themselves, and swiftly vanished into the fog.

At almost the same moment, the ting-a-ling of bicycles raced past like flying things, the postmen waking a Londinium still deep in slumber. Next to wake were the dockworkers. Above the layered, tiered residential quarters near the harbor, cooking smoke gradually began to rise, though of course, the moment the smoke left the chimneys, it merged at once into Londinium's heavy fog. This was the hour when housewives prepared breakfast. Bran bread, rye bread, along with a pitiful bit of butter—that, generally, was what passed for breakfast. As for the bachelors, perhaps they had no leisure for such things; they preferred to tuck a loaf into their pockets and eat it on the way to the docks. And this was merely to lie a few more minutes on the boards of their beds, for the sake of their aching bodies—which was, on the whole, well worth it.

The postmen rode jingling and jangling past the docks, tossing down a few newspapers, knowing that the harbor district ahead was the real work. At some indeterminate point, the layered, tiered dock shanties gave way to dainty little houses with pointed roofs and small windows. They huddled two by two, pressed close together, exceedingly crowded, and weaving at high speed through the lanes between them was the special trick of the old postmen. Here, on the dining tables, fried eggs and bacon appeared; some households could even manage white bread. The bachelors lodging in the apartments here, too, could wheedle a decent breakfast out of their landlords.

By the time the postmen had huffed and puffed their way through delivering the papers and the mail, it was already noon. Most of them would open the lunch boxes they carried and eat right where they were, then ride leisurely back to the post office. With a bit of luck—if the higher-ups were kind and there was nothing new—the day was as good as done, and they could relax in earnest.

Though the harbor-district postmen had plenty of work, their daily tasks were relatively fixed. The city-district postmen were not so fortunate: they had to wait hand and foot upon the city's lords and nobles. Whether it was sending letters or reading newspapers, this was where it was done most, and naturally the postmen here were the busiest—though their wages were higher.

The Thames winds and twists, joining the sea to Londinium. Ships came and went, linking every corner of the world together. When the first wisp of steam appeared aboard a vessel, mechanical power shattered an age. Greater speed brought swifter communication. Somewhere in Londinium, a newspaper named for the Thames raised the curtain on Londinium's journalism. And now, that little newspaper of yesteryear had hacked a bloody path through an age of contending heroes, and had become the leader of its industry. The Times had already become the first choice of many.

From political affairs to Londinium gossip, the paper had everything. Prussia and Frankland had never gotten along, and their mutual frictions had long monopolized the front pages of the papers. But today was different. The editors of the Thames declared, in bold, eye-catching type, on the very first page—Princess Sophia of Russia arrives in Londinium today!

(2)

Mathis dragged himself groggily out of bed. Though he had lived here for nearly half a year, he still wasn't used to Londinium's wretched weather. As for why his head was splitting—Mathis scratched his head—ah, it was because he had drunk too much last night. The start-of-term party; that was unavoidable.

Luckily, as a mid-year transfer student, he could have the double room in the Londinium University dormitory all to himself; otherwise he and his roommate would surely have ended up in a duel. As expected, today's Londinium was overcast too, and Mathis couldn't help thinking of the clear skies of Lutetia. Then his thoughts leapt again to his elder brother—Olivier. Father was truly unfair. Why should he get to sail the seas and play every day, while Mathis had to come suffer on this dark, damp island?

Mathis sighed. It was his own fault for being so sickly from childhood; it was only reasonable that Father wouldn't let him go to sea. Mathis struggled out of bed, dug out one or two passably presentable garments from the pile of clothes, pulled them on, and went into the washroom.

No sooner had he shut the door than there came a pounding knock at the dormitory door.

"Mathis?" A rich, deep voice penetrated layer upon layer of walls.

"Dear Professor John, next time please do not come while I'm on the toilet!!!"

"Mathis, you're going to have a roommate!"

The word "roommate" gave Mathis pause. He was a little annoyed. "Find somebody else!"

"This is a notice!"

"Nique ta mère!" Mathis knew there was no escaping this one. But since it was a double room he'd been hogging anyway, if the school insisted on assigning someone, there was probably nothing he could do but be displeased.

Having washed his hands, he hurried to open the door. Professor John stood at the threshold in a crisp, immaculate suit. "Oh, my dear Mathis, whatever else, I always thought you Franks put grooming first."

"Professor, didn't you, last night, also—" Mathis dimly recalled John's dancing the night before.

"Ah, youth." John clicked his tongue. "All right, lad, there's no time to get ready."

"Eh?" Mathis was stunned for a moment. His brain, numbed by alcohol all night, now began to turn. "He's coming today?"

"That's right."

"At least give me a chance to get ready. Professor, look in there—"

Mathis stepped aside, and the chaos of the dorm room was exposed to the broad light of day. John, well prepared, turned away elegantly, hands clasped behind his back. "Time and tide wait for no man. When does life ever give you a chance to get ready? Lad, keep up with me."

And so, with trepidation, Mathis followed behind the professor.

In Professor John's office, Mathis sat stiffly on the sofa. On the low table before him lay the latest issue of The Times. In wordless silence, the two of them waited. Professor John stood with his hands behind his back, gazing out the window, like a lion surveying its territory. Mathis rubbed his messy blond hair, unsure how to face his new roommate.

Ah well, this reckoning had to come sooner or later, Mathis thought. Ever since the first wisp of steam appeared on the British isle, this place had been destined to become the metropolis of the future. Rising alongside it were great factories, harbors of every kind, banks, newspapers, and of course universities. Though Londinium sat on an island, this city gathered nearly every sort of person you could imagine. Franks, Prussians, Italians, Spaniards, Bohemians, Austro-Hungarians... they all converged here, simply to glimpse the truth of this age—steam.

Mathis belonged to this number too. Though it was his father's wish, things had not gone as hoped: the moment he saw those charcoal sketches and schematics, his head ached. Literature, chemistry, sociology, geography—well, so long as it wasn't machinery, Mathis was interested in all of it. Mathis's bookshelf was piled with this and that, enough to show the jumbled breadth of his interests. Though this too might have been because, sickly since childhood, he had no love of exercise and could only keep company with books.

With a creak, before Mathis could think too much, the door opened. Pushing the door in was a delicate-featured man with long brown hair tied back. He wore a fur cap and was wrapped in a great fur robe, his cheeks scrupulously clean. Beneath the brim of his cap, blue eyes glinted with a cold light; the whole man was exceedingly crisp and keen. And the chancellor of Londinium—Newton—followed in after him.

"This is Alexei," Chancellor Newton introduced him to John and Mathis. Alexei extended a hand from within his robe toward John, an exquisite white glove on his hand.

John shook it amicably and introduced Alexei: "This is your roommate in Londinium—Mathis. Say hello to each other, lads."

Mathis stretched out his hand, leaving it hanging in midair. Alexei seemed to be thinking: was this fellow before him, with his tousled hair and stubbled chin, really a student of Londinium University—and his roommate, no less? Mathis read it in his eyes, that gaze tinged with disdain and doubt.

Heh heh, Mathis could only grin foolishly. "Sorry, sorry, my name is Mathis, a Frank, currently studying at Londinium University. Very pleased to meet you."

In the end, Alexei could only accept reality, grasped Mathis's hand, and gave it a shake.

"You're a noble? This outfit isn't cheap, and besides, anyone who can transfer into Londinium is either rich and powerful or brilliantly gifted. There are plenty of nobles who study machinery, but most of them are fanatical madmen who'd never dress like this. What's more, The Times says Princess Sophia is visiting Britain today, so I wonder whether you might have come in her entourage?"

"All right, all right, save these matters for after you two have gotten to know each other." Seeing Mathis about to launch into one of his torrents, Professor John hastened to cut in. "Mathis, don't go prying into such private things right off the bat. Alexei, don't take offense—Mathis may be a bit rude, but he's a warmhearted fellow at heart. Our college had a party yesterday, and Mathis got drunk, so he's a little disheveled. He's normally a very good sort. You two should get along well from now on."

"All right, let's go take a look at the dormitory," said Newton. "Alexei will only be lodging here for a while, until the spring break; after the break, we'll arrange a separate single room for him."

"Eh? Chancellor, I submitted an application for a single room too—why—"

Mathis was about to argue, but when he saw Chancellor Newton's pair of cold, gloomy blue eyes, he knew he had better shut up. After all, his own family was merely rich, whereas this Russian roommate—there was no telling what sort of background he had.

(3)

Though it was a double room, Londinium University was rather respectful of privacy: each suite was made up of two separate bedrooms, a shared little sitting room, and a washroom. Before Alexei arrived, the sitting-room table was piled with a half-bottle of wine, day-old coffee, and fruit that had sat out for who knew how long; after he came, Mathis grew embarrassed and finally tidied up a bit.

In the half-month since, Alexei had maintained a coldness peculiar to Russians, scarcely exchanging more than a few words with Mathis. Even when asked questions, he would only answer with a simple "Mm," or shake his head. And, it seemed, on account of Mathis's own self-introduction, Alexei had developed something of a prejudice against him: every time they met, he was wrapped up tightly, his figure always shrouded beneath the robe he had brought from his homeland.

Was this perhaps some custom? Mathis could only sigh helplessly. It was clearly the Britons who had more of a taste for the love that dares not speak its name—why did the whole world heap the stereotype on us Franks?

Compared with the utterly slack Mathis, Alexei was far more diligent about his studies. Every day, before Mathis even woke, Alexei was already out the door. Only deep at night, when Mathis was engrossed in his reading, would he hear the click of the dormitory door opening and closing, and lift his head to see Alexei hurrying back, travel-worn, from outside. With such application, Alexei surely had some great ambition, Mathis thought privately to himself.

Mathis had assumed that such moldy university days would be broken up by Londinium University's midterm assessments, but reality was otherwise. With The Times publishing the news that Princess Sophia would soon visit Londinium University, the whole school threw itself into preparations. A university that claimed to "possess all the cleverest minds of the age" had to put on a fine show before its foreign guest, to display Britain's advancement.

This was reasonable enough, though. It was said that Chancellor Newton was Princess Sophia's uncle or something—Mathis couldn't quite untangle that sort of relation. But in any case, they were kin in some fashion, so it was only natural that the chancellor could invite the princess to visit.

Mathis, too, was infected by the atmosphere suffusing the campus, and had lately taken to studying various Russian works—history and politics included, of course. The present Tsar, Alexander II, was already in his twilight years. He had, beneath his knee, an eldest daughter, Princess Sophia; a second prince, Peter; a third prince, Alexander; and a fourth prince, Ivan. And his good roommate, Alexei—that name was very common in Russia, and also very famous, on account of a legendary assassin. That legendary assassin who time and again cleared away the obstacles before Ivan the Terrible was named precisely Alexei. Of course, it was also a common man's name in Russia.

Returning to the Tsar—though the Russian royal house was royal in name, Mathis knew that in the eyes of the Franks, the English, and the Prussians, that eastern frozen wasteland counted only as a land of "barbarians beyond the pale." Over time, they had bred into their very bones a kind of arrogance toward Russians. Just think—Russia had lost who knows how many wars, and the one battle of Waterloo it had won was the result of learning advanced military systems. Given all this, Princess Sophia must have come to import steam engines. After all, in the future, should she ascend the throne as empress, the applications of steam at that time would only grow more and more numerous.

Moreover, if she could import steam engines, Princess Sophia's image would surely gain considerable favor in the Tsar's eyes, and her chances of one day being crowned Tsar would rise by a few points. Though it was a system of inheritance by the eldest legitimate son or daughter, in the end it was the Tsar himself who had the final say, and history was not without instances of the second or third son succeeding. Political considerations would, more often than not, be placed first—such was Mathis's latest insight from his study of Russian history.

Set history aside and speak of the present: Sophia and Peter were both around sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years of age; while Alexander and Ivan, one eight and one six, clearly had no competitive standing. Therefore, as Alexander II's health steadily declined, the rivalry between Sophia and Peter grew all the fiercer. Adding fuel to the flames was the fact that Sophia's and Peter's mothers came from different noble houses. The interests bound up behind a single throne were enough to drive nobles great and small, kin near and distant, into a frenzy.

"Alexei?" In the sitting room, Mathis heard the sound of the door opening and set down the book in his hand.

Alexei glanced over while putting away his umbrella; Londinium's rain was endless and most vexing.

"I recently finished reading the Russian royal history."

"?" Alexei craned his neck—Mathis knew this was his way of expressing puzzlement.

"Who do you think the next Tsar will be?" A sly light flashed in Mathis's eyes.

"Tss—" Alexei hesitated a little, but before he could get the words out, Mathis cut him off.

"No, no, no—in my view, it is precisely Peter who is the more likely to inherit the throne."

"?" Alexei knew his roommate was unlike ordinary people, but this time he hadn't even answered yet—it seemed Mathis had taken his "Tss" as the opening of "Sophia."

Mathis went on, talking to himself.

"Although Sophia, as the eldest daughter, has even come all the way to Britain this time, when I survey Russian history, whenever there is competition for the throne, victory comes by roughly two methods."

"The first is the contest between the families of the two sides' mothers. Generally speaking, whichever side is stronger is the side that wins. The second is assassination. So long as one is not caught, one removes the other heirs, and then the crown naturally lands on one's own head. As for civil war and rebellion and the like, those are in fact the worst of options—in all of history they have scarcely succeeded a few times."

"And as for Russia's present situation, Sophia's mother died long ago, and her family is in decline—no comparison at all to Peter's side. Moreover, if Princess Sophia held victory firmly in hand, there'd be no need to come to Britain, would there? Making this whole trip is nothing but a last struggle. What's more, coming abroad at a time like this—if one day the old Tsar were to pass away, by the time she returned, Peter's enthronement ceremony might already be over."

"Hmph." Alexei gave a cold snort, a touch of reluctance in his tone. "I'd say this is no visit of hers—it's outright exile. A good many of those who came over are the Tsar's guards, and they all answer to the second prince."

"Alexei, has the weather turned? You actually spoke a whole sentence today?!" Amid his astonishment, Mathis voiced his deduction: "But since you came along with the princess, I suppose you're not of the opposition. Still, I have to say something unpleasant—in Londinium, assassinating Sophia would be far easier than within Russia's borders. Londinium is a mixed multitude of dragons and fishes; fishing in troubled waters is a fine idea."

Alexei neither confirmed nor denied it, and said, "Enough. You, a Frank, fretting so much over our affairs. So long as the throne is not yet settled, the struggle, the contest, the plots of assassination will never cease."

With that, Alexei went into the washroom and locked it with a click. Mathis knew this meant he was going to bathe. But he was still in a state of shock. He had assumed Alexei was unwilling to speak because he feared his rough Russian accent would be mocked. But in fact, Alexei's voice was more like one that had not yet broken—clear, cold, and young. He himself was even a little... oh no, this couldn't really be a Frankish tradition, could it? Mathis slapped his own cheeks, then snatched up his book and fell to pondering the power struggles on the other end of the continent.

(4)

Richard opened his eyes, and the dim yellow chandelier on the ceiling came into view. He turned his head and saw a group of policemen gathered around the bed.

"FXXX!" He was given a great fright, jerked his body upright, and a wave of pain shot through him. "Ow, ow, ow, ow!"

"Don't move about. Your wounds haven't healed," said one who appeared to be the leader of the police. "Scotland Yard. Inspector Shawn. I ask, you answer, that's all. Richard?"

"Yes." Richard swallowed. He realized he was lying in a bed in a hospital. A group of policemen surrounded him, along with a few gentlemen and young men, several of whom didn't look like Englishmen.

"Occupation?"

"Gatekeeper at Londinium University."

"Do you remember what happened yesterday?"

"Yesterday?" Richard sank into thought. Hazy memories, prompted by the officer, gradually floated up into his mind. "Princess Sophia—no, no, it can't be?"

"So you do remember."

Richard seemed to realize something, his face turning pale. "No, it can't be..."

"Yes. Yesterday was originally the day Princess Sophia was to visit Londinium University. The banquet was set to be held in the university's assembly hall, but then Princess Sophia's box exploded and caught fire. Do you remember what your security duties were at the time?"

"I remember, of course I remember. I was in charge of the spiral staircase below the box where the princess was."

"Then tell me, how many people were in the box at the time?"

"Six?" Richard suddenly thought of something. "No, it should be five. At the time I remember a total of six Russians went up the spiral staircase, and afterward one who seemed to be a student came back down and went to the main hall. Apart from those Russians, only a cleaner and Chancellor Newton went up—but they both came back down."

"Do you remember what those Russians looked like?"

Richard knit his brows. "No, not really. Several of them were wrapped in those Russian-style overcoats—I really couldn't see their faces clearly. But I definitely searched all of them—"

"Was the one who came down this man?" Shawn pointed to Alexei beside him. Beside Alexei stood Mathis, who had insisted on tagging along under the pretext of being his roommate.

The figure in his mind, dressed in a suit, going down the stairs, gradually merged with this young man before him in reality. So Richard said, "It should be—it should be him."

"And after he left, did anyone else go up the spiral staircase?"

"No one. And of course no one came down either."

"That's right, then. There were only five charred corpses at the scene." Shawn nodded. "Could that box only be entered through the spiral staircase you were guarding?"

"Yes." Richard hesitated. "Though, if you must say so, that box has a very large window. To get in from the outside—it's not entirely impossible—"

"How high is the box?"

"Tss—about ten meters off the ground."

"Is it easy to climb up from outside?"

"Uh, that's not really possible—at least not for a human being."

"Does that box have any adjoining boxes?"

"Ah, the other boxes do. That one box alone does not. Above the main hall there are seven boxes in all, each with its own independent spiral staircase, three on the left and three on the right, and the box where the princess was at the time was in the middle, the whole thing forming a U shape."

"Could one climb across from the boxes on either side?"

"Not likely," Richard said, none too certain. "Officer, you'll know once you go take a look. The outer wall of Londinium University's assembly hall has absolutely nowhere to set one's feet, and besides, there was a drizzling rain yesterday."

Shawn nodded in acknowledgment. "Then can you give a rough account of all your work yesterday?"

"All of it?"

"Just the assembly-hall part."

"Yesterday around five-something, the guests came in one after another. Princess Sophia's party went up at half past five. I searched those men—wrapped in their great overcoats though they were, there's no way they could have brought up so much as a single match. After about another fifteen minutes, that Russian lad came back down. And then there was—there was the fire. After that... I, I don't really remember."

"Age?"

"Forty-five." Richard was a little startled—why this all of a sudden?

"Place of birth?"

"Russia."

"Marital status?"

"Divorced, currently single."

"How many children have you had?"

"Two."

"What did you eat for lunch yesterday?"

"Fish and chips."

"And for the evening?"

"Stew."

"Medical history?"

"Epilepsy. FXXX!" By the time Richard realized what he had said, it was already too late.

Shawn smiled a smug smile and said, "Let me tell you what happened next. I imagine that a certain someone, by ill luck, had an epileptic fit, and so did not hear the explosion that rang through the hall, nor realize the flames sweeping through the box. He could only wait in the staircase, ignorant, for the fire to spread..."

"No, it wasn't like that."

"Of course it wasn't! When the students rushed over to fight the fire, you had already collapsed halfway up the spiral staircase—if the students had been any later, you'd have been burned to death. During an epileptic fit, you wouldn't remember a thing you'd done. And you were the person closest to the box, and a Russian besides—if you supported the second prince's succession—"

"No, officer, I didn't!"

"Heh heh, I doubt you'll get away from here." Shawn waved a hand. "That's about all the questioning. Keep an eye on him—we're off."

Richard truly did not remember, and Shawn's words had planted a seed of doubt in his heart. As he racked his brains trying to recall yesterday, Shawn led the crowd out of the ward.

Fiery red, the spinning staircase, the spreading tongues of flame, the rolling smoke and dust... Richard clutched his head and let out a few hoarse, anguished sobs. Two officers stood by the bedside, looking at each other. At last, one of them left the room, fetched a cup of water from somewhere, and set it on Richard's bedside table. Then he went and stood beside his companion, and only Richard's weeping remained in the room.

(5)

Kent sat stiffly on the chair, the Scotland Yard inspector seated directly across from him. His small room was crammed with a great crowd of people, most of them police.

"Name?"

"Kent."

"Age?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Place of birth?"

"France."

"Occupation?"

"Cleaner at Londinium University."

"Tell us what happened yesterday."

Kent swallowed; he knew this was the main event. "Yesterday at four o'clock, I went to clean the assembly hall—first the main hall, then the second floor. It was a little after half past five; I greeted Richard, the gatekeeper, and then went upstairs to tidy up. At the time that Russian princess—what was her name again?"

"Sophia," Shawn reminded him.

"Right, right, Sophia. See how nervous I am, I've even forgotten, ha ha." Kent gave a few dry laughs. "They were chatting with the chancellor at the time, and I was tidying up. The chancellor finished chatting and went downstairs, and I left a little while after—that would have been about five thirty-five."

"Can you recognize this person?" Shawn pointed toward Alexei.

"Tss—" Kent thought for a while. "Sorry, Inspector, I really didn't pay that much attention at the time, didn't quite memorize what those few looked like. Besides, with those high-collared overcoats of theirs, who could see? But Princess Sophia's dress, that—"

"Never mind, go on."

"Then, then at six o'clock, the chancellor was supposed to give a speech to open the banquet. But then an explosion came from the princess's box on the second floor, and then it caught fire, and everyone went to put it out together. But that fire burned very fiercely—furniture alone could never have burned that fast."

"Do you remember the box's furnishings at the time?"

"Of course—I've cleaned them plenty of times. Those boxes are all decorated the same: sofa, window, carved stools, greenery, kerosene lamp—nothing more than those few things. Each box has its own lavatory. And what's more, those rooms are all furnished to the standard of the noble lords: the chairs stuffed with soft cotton, the curtains all of silk, and a layer of plush carpet laid over the floor. Beautiful, the lot of them!"

"Then why do you think it was an explosion?"

"Because it went off with a bang, very loud, and it caught fire almost immediately. I keep suspecting it was something like a gas pipe—that sort of thing makes that kind of sound when it meets an open flame."

Shawn nodded. "So it was an explosion caused by a gas leak?"

"That's not it either." Kent now grew somewhat doubtful. "Inspector, I'm only saying so. After all, I've inspected the boxes' kerosene lamps—the protective measures are very well done, a frame on the outside and glass on the inside, you couldn't smash them if you tried. The kerosene only burns within the glass chamber; how could it cause an explosion? What's more, the assembly hall's dishes are all carried over from the kitchen—that is, the hall itself has no need for gas, so where would the pipes come from? I only said that as a figure of speech."

"Did you hear any cries for help?"

"Cries for help? Not as far as I can recall."

"Why would there be none?"

"How would I know, sir?"

"Could that explosion, which didn't even shatter the box's window glass, make five grown adults all faint in an instant?" Shawn demanded.

"That, that I don't really understand..."

"And another thing—why is there datura pollen among your cleaning supplies?"

"Oh, that. That's for the kind of incense used inside the boxes. Datura pollen, when lit, has a calming effect—don't the noble lords all love that sort of thing?"

"Then you must also know that datura pollen, once ingested in excess, can have an anesthetic effect, putting several grown adults into a slumber dead as pigs for at least an hour or more. Am I right, Kent?"

Kent realized something, his face gradually turning white. "But, officer, this is all permitted by Londinium University. Besides, datura pollen—anyone who wants it can buy it at the market—"

"The chancellor did say so, but how it actually was at the time, only you yourself know—no one can testify for you. If everyone in the world obeyed the rules, there would be no crime!"

"Please believe me, officer, sir, I truly—"

"Let me say it, Kent. After the chancellor went downstairs, you needed only to cover your mouth and nose with a damp handkerchief, which would keep you from fainting. Then, in the lavatory, you quietly lit an excess of datura pollen. Once everyone in the room had quickly fallen into slumber, you took out the kerosene from the cleaning toolbox—the kerosene that was originally meant to refill the lamps—poured it out properly, took out a fuse, lit it, and after that you needed only to wait for the fire to start."

"There was already a kerosene can in each room for refilling. And besides, you can check my toolbox and you'll know whether I poured any out or not," Kent said. "And besides, why would I want to kill them?!"

"Kent, you're a Frenchman—we checked that long ago. Your grandfather was a guardsman; we know that too. To avenge the glory of the Grande Armée, already buried in the dust, by venting the wrath of Waterloo upon Princess Sophia—that reason fits rather well, doesn't it? And what's more, you may well have already refilled the kerosene in your box afterward. I'd say the murderer is you, Kent!"

"This is plainly twisting reason to suit yourself!"

"Whatever the case, Mr. Kent, I must ask you to come sit a while at Scotland Yard." With a cold snort, Shawn rose and left.

Before Kent realized the gravity of the situation, he had already been seized by two officers and marched downstairs.

(6)

After a busy day of meeting two suspects, Alexei and Mathis—who had served as so many puppets—finally returned to their dorm.

"Say, why doesn't Inspector Shawn arrest Chancellor Newton?" Mathis joked. After all, judging by the inspector's investigative style, he was the type who would "rather wrongly arrest a hundred than let a single one slip." And indeed, of the people who had entered the box, all but Alexei and the chancellor had been arrested. And Mathis suspected that if Inspector Shawn could find a suitable pretext of motive, he would not hesitate to invite the chancellor and Alexei into Scotland Yard as well. What's more, the moment the chancellor went in, wouldn't his own single room—Mathis cracked his mouth into a wicked grin.

Seeing that Mathis had tagged along like a shadow all day, surely he must have some idea, so Alexei, rarely, opened his mouth: "So then, what do you make of it all?"

"This was a premeditated crime."

"?" Alexei threw him a puzzled glance. Sometimes Mathis really did wonder how one person could express so many emotions on his face.

"This was Princess Sophia, after all. No matter how you look at it, there's no way it was a crime of impulse in a fit of rage."

Alexei nodded in agreement. At about six o'clock at the time, he and Mathis had been sitting in the main hall waiting for the meal to begin. After the "bang," fire broke out on the second floor. And it burned fiercely, reddening Londinium's darkened night. By the time the students had put out the fire and the Scotland Yard police went upstairs, all that remained were several charred corpses with faces beyond recognition. Based on a necklace and brooch left at the scene, after Chancellor Newton's confirmation, Scotland Yard determined that Princess Sophia had unfortunately perished in the fire.

Mathis went on: "Altogether, only you six Russians, the chancellor, and the cleaner ever entered the box. Of course, it's also possible that the guard called Richard lied, or simply had an epileptic fit and did something outrageous—after all, no one knows what he did after five forty-five."

"Eh..." Alexei sighed.

"It's all right—you were rather lucky. Thanks to your going downstairs early, otherwise you'd probably have ended up like them."

Alexei gave a helpless, bitter smile.

"Alexei, the reason you and the chancellor haven't been taken into Scotland Yard—besides Shawn being unable to dig up a motive—is that you both have alibis. The chancellor was on the platform giving his speech at the time, and you were sitting beside me. As for Richard and Kent, whom we saw today—where were they at the time? No one knows."

"So who is it?"

"Richard or Kent? Both are possible—yet both are impossible too."

"Why?"

"Think about Shawn's reasoning. And in the scene as Shawn described it to us, isn't there something left unused?"

"What?" Alexei didn't understand.

"The fire at the time was very large, burning nearly everything. When we students rushed over, those carpets, sofas, and curtains in the room were gone, the walls all scorched black, and the kerosene lamps on the walls shattered. A fire this great—besides the silk fabrics and woodwork inside the box, there must also have been the help of fuel like kerosene or alcohol."

"But great as the fire was, Shawn and his men actually found a single bullet casing at the scene, along with a Londinium Firearms pistol. And luckily, because we put the fire out quickly, the internal mechanism of the firearm wasn't destroyed. That gun had been modified in its mechanical structure—it could only be fired by winding it up."

"So?"

"This kind of gun is specially made, and as it happens, Londinium Firearms only ever produced a handful of that sort of pistol. Its original purpose was to enhance the bullet's power by winding it up, but the result, once produced, was no good to use. Because of the firearm's mechanism, this gun, unlike other guns, cannot be fired instantly by the trigger; it can only be fired on a delay, by the spring winding, within half an hour to two hours. Compared to a weapon, it's more like a toy, so they were all shipped abroad—" Mathis realized the problem.

"So?"

"At the very least it shows the murderer isn't a local, I suppose. As for a foreigner—it does seem anyone could have bought one."

"And besides—must the murderer be one of those two men?" The corner of Mathis's mouth curled up as he asked.

"Eh?" Alexei was taken aback.

"What Richard said is, of course, correct: at the time, the box where Princess Sophia was did not adjoin any of the others, and there were no footholds on the outer wall either. But why confine our gaze to the assembly hall?"

"Alexei, you know that behind that assembly hall, across a small courtyard, stands our university's clock tower. And the window of the box where the princess was faces precisely the clock tower. And from there, naturally, one can look down into the box. If someone were up there..."

"Then what?" Alexei asked.

"The bullet wasn't necessarily fired from that Londinium Firearms gun. If someone were up in the clock tower, and the window happened to be open—"

Mathis, struck by some thought, suddenly fell silent. Alexei knew his roommate was just neurotic like this, so he simply ignored him. For him, the daily bath was still unavoidable. No matter what happened, life had to go on. He tidied himself up a bit and went into the washroom.

Amid the splashing of water, Mathis stared blankly into space.

The bang, the orange-red flames, no one crying for help—he understood it all. The murderer could only be...