Red Bridge District, Mel Street.
Herman Hughes, having just stepped off the Public Carriage, didn’t rush home but instead chose to pick up some ingredients for dinner along the way.
As a private detective, his eating habits weren’t particularly refined.
Most of the time, his food choices depended on his work location.
When handling cases in affluent areas, he would indulge himself at upscale restaurants, ordering a slice of York ham paired with caviar, chicken pie, and a portion of grilled mackerel, treating himself to a fine meal.
But at the docks, where laborers predominated, even tough black bread with gravy and mashed potatoes was a feast.
Still, no matter how busy or tired he was, every Friday night he would cook for himself, open a bottle of red wine, and savor the bittersweet acidity.
Of course, tonight was no exception.
“Mrs. Edith, two pounds of white bread, please.”
“Well, well, look who it is, our great detective getting off work.”
Mrs. Edith, her hair silver-white and wrinkles deepened, cheerfully handed over a paper bag filled with soft bread, adding a small bag of leftover crusts as a bonus.
“Three pence.”
She had a mischievous “child,” a sleek-coated, sturdy big cat that often ran around during mating season. Twice it had gone missing, only to be found with the help of this young detective.
“I’ll pass on your generosity to Peanut.”
Peanut was his pet, a colorful, speckled parrot.
Mrs. Edith took the three coins embossed with the image of the Queen wearing a crown and chatted on:
“Mr. Hughes, you only ever buy bread to cook for yourself on Fridays.”
“Since my husband left, I’ve come to realize how dull dinner alone can be.”
“You’re still young, ambitious, and energetic. You should find a lady around your age who is gentle and caring to look after your life.”
“If luck is on your side, you’ll walk down the aisle, and a year or two later, your home will gain a lovely little angel.”
Mrs. Edith smiled again, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening.
“How about Miss Hobbs? She’s a tutor, both sweet and gentle, with a good income—forty-five Soden a year.”
“She’s hosting a small dinner party this Sunday. If you’re interested, Mr. Hughes, I can get you an invitation.”
So it was matchmaking. Herman suddenly understood, picturing Miss Hobbs’s face in his mind.
Petite and cute, she was indeed a charming lady.
No wonder the old Mr. Hobbs’s store clerk had been giving him cold looks lately.
Well, Miss Hobbs had good taste.
Feeling good about himself aside, Herman politely declined what was very likely an indirect offer from Miss Hobbs.
“Miss Hobbs is an excellent woman.”
“As for me, I’m just a private detective with an unstable income.”
“My Lord, the Master of All Spirits, teaches me this.”
“Until I have a sufficient material foundation to support a family, pursuing a relationship with the goal of marriage is nothing but frivolous behavior.”
Mrs. Edith was taken aback. As a follower of the Church of Abundance and Agriculture and believer in the Goddess of Abundance, she was unfamiliar with the doctrines of the neighboring Church of Truth.
Was their scripture always this blunt?
Don’t ask—it’s what the Master of All Spirits said.
Herman tipped his hat slightly and said farewell:
“Goodbye, Mrs. Edith.”
With that, he strode off, taking long strides until he was out of sight.
Steering clear of romance, being a free man—women only slowed his progress on the Detective Path!
Back at his home at 13 Mel Street, a terraced house with the landlord living next door—a somewhat showy old gentleman—Herman struggled to pull out the key with his intact hand, carrying the paper bag filled with bread, butter, sugar, and lamb.
Fortunately, the Detective Path had granted him some fighting skills, improving his physical coordination. Otherwise, pretending to be Yang Guo without Brother Diao’s help would be quite troublesome.
Click.
The door just opened when a shadow flickered before his eyes. Suddenly, his hat was snatched off his head.
A mottled parrot flapped its wings, clawing at the hat and spinning through the air, squawking repeatedly:
“Woof! Woof! Woof!”
A complicated composition.
Herman: “…….”
He did have Brother Diao, but unfortunately, it was a silly one.
Shaking his head, Herman ignored the stolen hat, set the paper bag on the shoe cabinet nearby, and closed the door.
He took off his coat and jacket, changed into loose, breathable home clothes, and hummed an unknown tune as he carried the groceries to the kitchen.
The hat, bored of playing, was tossed by Peanut onto the sofa. The parrot then flew to Herman’s shoulder, tilted its head, and its dark grape-like eyes fixed on the man’s face.
It was hungry and wanted food.
Herman pointed toward the door and lifted his chin.
Translated, it was a question: Did anyone else enter the room after I left this afternoon?
“Quack.”
Hmm, “quack” meant no; “quack-quack” meant yes.
To teach his partner Peanut this skill, the great detective Herman Hughes had once been utterly exhausted.
He was very satisfied; each time Peanut responded, he felt the pride of a father watching his daughter grow up.
He opened the small bag Mrs. Edith had given him and poured some bread crumbs into the bird’s food bowl.
Peanut usually ate millet. Parrots had delicate, sensitive stomachs; too much bread’s carbs weren’t good, so he couldn’t feed it often. But it loved the taste. Every time it saw bread crumbs, its head bobbed like it was pounding rice.
After feeding Peanut, Herman began preparing his own dinner.
He lit the stove, and once the pan was hot, he added a chunk of butter to melt. Then he threw in freshly cut lamb, frying until the color changed before setting it aside.
Next, he turned the heat to medium, sautéed onions until soft, added spices, honey, and the half-cooked lamb, stirring and heating through. After it boiled, he sprinkled salt and black pepper, and the dish was done.
Well, it looked average, but the aroma was enticing, the portion large and satisfying—overall, not bad.
After plating the lamb, Herman placed the purchased white bread at the bottom of the pan to soak up the thick meat juices, then nodded in approval and turned off the fire.
Living alone meant fewer formalities. He fetched a chair, dragged it into the kitchen, and improvised the stove as his dining table.
Then he took a bottle of wine from the cabinet, seemingly studying its origin as his eyes landed on the label.
At the bottom of the label was a series of numbers, some marked with ink dots.
Herman’s expression remained calm, without a hint of surprise, like an ordinary man enjoying fine wine with his meal.
But inside, he quietly repeated the marked numbers.
211.
There lay the memory he had deliberately erased.