Chapter 48 – The Dartmoor Disappearance Case (6)

"Harold, what's going on?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I usually bring the sheep in at this time, and it tends to get noisy."

"Hmm, it's fine. It's a unique experience, one I couldn't have in the city."

"Though it seems someone isn't quite okay with it."

I glanced at Monty, who was pretending to be cheerful behind me.

With a light smile, Harold walked off to inform the others.

"By the way, there seem to be a lot of sheep. Are they all raised here?"

"Yes, it appears there are quite a few marshes around here, so the ranch is close to the mansion. From what I saw before, the stable master helps take care of them."

"Interesting."

Arthur Conan Doyle took out his notebook and began jotting down notes.

"Despite appearances, those sheep are quite valuable. In fact, about thirty percent of the income in this area comes from raising those sheep and horses."

"Well, since farming is difficult in this region, they must rely on livestock."

As he nodded, something suddenly occurred to me.

Hmm, come to think of it.

"In areas like this, there are often legends about Black Dogs."

"Oh, it's been a while since I heard about Black Dogs. But isn't this area mostly open fields? Do such folktales exist here?"

His question was natural.

Typically, Black Dog folklore involves crossroads or narrow paths, places not commonly found here. The lack of crossroads and the wide-open spaces made it seem strange.

But the legend of the Black Dog isn't just about that.

As a somewhat recognized expert in mythology and folklore, I decided to flaunt my knowledge.

"Yes, in this area, there's a legend that on dark days, a Black Dog appears with lightning, stealing human souls. Some even call it a Hellhound."

"Hellhound, huh? That's a rather grim name."

"Well, since there are many ranches here, it might be a story born from encounters with stray dogs. Imagine a large dog appearing out of nowhere on a rainy day; anyone would be startled."

"I see. Now that you mention it, you also included the Barghest tradition in <Peter Perry>, didn't you?"

"Ah, yes. That was based on a story I heard…"

Dartmoor, being a basin surrounded by the Rocky Mountains, often had sounds that echoed, as we just heard.

The occult thrives on the fear of the unknown. Such things naturally evolve into eerie tales, and I've collected those tales well, using them in my writings.

"With fog in the mornings and evenings, and the distorted sounds from the rocky formations, it certainly feels eerie. But when you understand it, it's nothing much."

"Hmm, indeed. Connecting it with the local characteristics makes it quite interesting."

While chatting, we soon reached the front of our respective rooms.

"Hmm… something feels just out of reach. Well, let's reconvene tomorrow. Have a good evening."

"Sure, see you tomorrow."

We exchanged light farewells and parted ways.

And then,

"Hanslow Jin… Oh, are you sleeping with me tonight?"

Monty tugged at my sleeve, speaking cautiously.

Ah, it seems the earlier noise has created another believer in ghost stories.

"Well, what should I do?"

"Ah! Don't tease me!"

***

The next day, I met Conan Doyle in the dining room. He looked as immaculate as ever, having apparently slept well.

Monty, on the other hand, was a mess, having stayed up all night.

"In the morning, I met with Detective Hopkins and compiled the results of the servant and guest investigations."

"How was it?"

"The guests are mostly clean. Nearly all have alibis, and those without don't have a reason to kill Baron Carlyle. Unless new evidence surfaces, we can probably exclude them from the investigation."

"And the servants?"

"Well…"

Arthur Conan Doyle, usually so confident, seemed uncharacteristically uncertain.

And with good reason.

"It's quite ambiguous."

"What do you mean?"

"We underestimated the scale. This isn't just Baron Carlyle's mansion; it's also a castle."

Stapleton Manor is close to two lower villages in the Dartmoor basin. 

But the paths are problematic; during the day, it's a short walk, but at night, straying even a little from the path risks falling into a swamp, so people rarely travel then.

Thus, Baron Carlyle provided food and lodging for about twenty servants directly at the manor.

Even Ashfield only has a few live-in staff, including myself, most of whom commute from the port town of Torquay.

The servants not only lived at Stapleton Manor but also managed the baron's personal ranch and forest.

They even took care of lighting the streetlamps along the path to the village, making them practically public employees.

"It's practically a small village."

"Exactly. And did you notice the sheep on the way here? Those belong to Baron Carlyle as well. His estate valued at 970,000 pounds isn't for nothing. He had the wealth to justify it."

"Wow…"

Monty marvelled beside me, but I just chuckled and ruffled his hair. 

I wondered if he even knew how much he'd inherit.

"So, they have no alibi to claim innocence. They're practically a family, and their bond is strong."

"Baron Carlyle was well-regarded in his lifetime."

"Well… that's a bit nuanced."

"Pardon?"

The man I knew was just a good-natured local squire.

Arthur Conan Doyle crossed his arms, looking a bit sour.

"Younger people like you thought highly of the baron. But the older servants, especially the butler, remembered him as quite the rake in his youth."

"Oh?"

"It's nothing too outrageous, but in his younger days, he was quite taken with his success, dabbling here and there. That led to constant issues with women."

That philanthropic man had such a past? You never really know people. No wonder there was no talk of him being married at his age.

An unexpected side.

Anyway, in that case…

"So, it could be the work of townsfolk with grudges?"

"Well, if that's the case, there's really no answer."

Arthur Conan Doyle clicked his tongue.

Indeed, in this closed, tight-knit society, if someone decided to bury something, it could stay buried forever.

"By the way, isn't the auction tonight?"

"Yes, so it'll be difficult for me to join the investigation from this evening."

"Oh, that's fine. I was planning to do some field investigations today anyway."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, there are some vague parts I want to clarify. Detective Hopkins will be joining me."

"You're really working hard."

"Haha, aren't you as well? Anyway, let's meet up after we finish our tasks."

"Understood."

I shook hands with Arthur Conan Doyle. With that, we wished each other luck and headed to our respective battlefields.

***

"And so, the final, 8th piece of the anonymous Waterfall woodblock print series goes to Ashfield for 100 pounds!"

"Thank you!"

I smiled and bowed. I hadn't expected much, but I got something better than I anticipated.

Anonymous, huh? It's amazing how the ignorance of these Anglo-Saxons worked in my favour, getting this at such a low price.

Monty, puzzled by my reaction, asked, "Hanslow Jin, is this really a good painting? To me, it just looks like an oddly colourful waterfall. There's no depth to it."

"Well, who knows?"

"Huh?"

"Young Master, in these matters, it's not about whether it's beautiful or not."

I stated confidently, "It's about whether you want it or not."

I was reminded of Mr. Miller, who purchased Munch's painting. Monty had the same expression Mr. Miller did back then.

I chuckled and explained more clearly, lowering my voice so others wouldn't hear.

"These rural auctioneers aren't yet familiar with Asian art, but this woodblock print is by the same artist as The Great Wave off Kanagawa, which is currently making waves in the continental art scene."

"Oh, really?"

Monty's eyes sparkled.

Good, now he gets it. In the art world, the fact that it's part of the same series as a famous work adds immense value.

Especially since this is a 'series piece.'

The same series tag alone boosts its worth.

Just taking this to Paris, where such paintings are trending, would multiply its value several times over.

"Congratulations, Hanslow Jin. Another good deal today."

"Haha, thanks to your concession. You also got a fine statue at a good price, Mr. Carstairs."

"Yes, these Greek-style statues are in demand. Baron Carlyle had an eye for quality… I'm thinking of placing one or two in my home."

Ah, so he indulged in his hobby as well. Not much different from me.

Meanwhile, the auction started moving towards jewellery.

Though there were no famous pieces, some of the cuts and sizes were exceptional.

Hmm. As expected of Baron Carlyle. His collection is remarkable… Wait a minute.

"… Hmm?"

"Hanslow Jin?"

"What's the matter?"

As Monty and Mr. Carstairs looked on in bewilderment, I began to carefully observe the jewels being auctioned from a distance.

Carstairs, like me, specialized in paintings, while Demetrius curiously refrained from participating.

Thus, the competition for jewellery was between Shellman and Funsby.

"120 pounds!"

"125 pounds."

"I'll bid 135 pounds!"

"150."

Currently, Funsby held the advantage.

And this… this seemed incredibly strange to me.

'Why?'

As I pondered, the jewels started to be auctioned off one by one.

Funsby won one, Shellman won one, then Funsby again, and again…

'... Aha.'

Realizing the oddity I had sensed earlier, there was only one thing left for me to do.

I had to confirm it.

"200! 200 pounds…"

"Hmph, then I'll bid 210 pounds!"

I wedged myself between the two shrimp.

"500 pounds."

"…?!"

"Hanslow Jin?!"

"500 pounds. I'll close the deal right here."

"Hanslow Jin, what are you doing?!"

"Master Monty, this is my personal money. You needn't worry."

I spoke coldly, not even turning to face Monty.

The banker conducting the auction resumed with a bright expression.

"So, 500 pounds! Will either of you bid more?"

"No, what are you talking about?!"

Shellman protested. It was understandable since I had broken the rules by jumping in after what happened in the dining hall.

Moreover, even the finest Burmese ruby was a ludicrous price at 2.5 carats for 500 pounds (about 100 million won).

"Is this some kind of revenge for yesterday?"

Shellman's hand trembled, gripping his fan so tightly it seemed it might break. But I had no intention of responding to such trivial matters.

"Wait, what's going on…!"

Funsby, realizing the situation belatedly, also protested.

"Auctioneer, continue."

I ignored them and proceeded with the auction.

"Ah, understood. 500 pounds! We have 500 pounds! Any further bids?"

"Ugh… 510 pounds!"

Patrick Funsby shouted like a man in pain. Sweat poured down his face like rain.

"Mr. Funsby, is that 510 pounds?"

"Y-yes, that's right."

"Alright. I see."

I turned my head.

The auctioneer looked dumbfounded, but maintained a professional, stern expression.

I spoke calmly to him.

"600 pounds."

"Gasp…!"

"625 pounds!"

Funsby followed immediately.

Of course, I matched him.

"I bid 700 pounds."

"Wait a minute…!"

"If you intend to challenge me to a money fight, by all means."

Even with my private funds, I could easily afford that amount.

Unable to withstand my cold glare, Funsby slowly lowered his gaze.

"… Burmese ruby, 2.5 carats. Sold to Ashfield."

"I see. So that ruby is mine now?"

"Once you pay the winning bid, yes."

"Then I'll write a check right away."

I climbed onto the podium.

Then, after hastily writing a check and handing it to the auctioneer, I looked at the ruby I had just won.

And, smiling coldly,

"Ah, ah…!"

"No!"

I threw it to the ground.

Crash!!

"Good heavens! 700 pounds… what on earth…!"

The ruby shattered into pieces like broken glass.

Everyone stared at me, stunned, as I turned 700 pounds into dust before their eyes. But I didn't flinch, focusing my gaze on one spot.

"Did you see that?"

"W-what…?"

"Did you see the ruby shatter?"

"Uh, uh?"

Ruby refers to corundum. Corundum is also used in diamonds, and its hardness is 9, living up to its name.

In other words, it is incredibly hard.

Even if this were not corundum but a similar red spinel, its hardness would still be close to 8.

While hardness and strength are not the same, they are often proportional. The important thing is that a genuine ruby would not shatter like glass just by dropping it on a marble floor.

Therefore…

"It's a fake."

Even I, who don't specialize in jewels, know this.

And if I know, surely this person does too.

"Mr. Funsby."

Among those present, there was no one more knowledgeable about jewels than him.

"H-ha…"

"You claimed this was worth 510 pounds."

I asked him coldly, scattering the fake ruby dust in my hand.

"Does this really hold the value of 510 pounds?"

An obvious fake or a poorly crafted piece, supposedly part of Baron Carlyle's collection?

"Just what are you plotting?"