In the dining hall, Dwight Nell glanced at Jesse Holmes, sitting beside the corpse with a wide grin, and felt a chill down his spine. Rubbing his brass cane, he couldn’t help but speak to Dennis Sandek at the doorway.
“Mr. Sandek, Miss Moulton, Mr. Bobby, and Mr. Rhys haven’t returned yet. Could something have happened?
Should we go look for them?”
God of Fate above, he just wanted an excuse to leave this room!
For the vote, just pick the madman Holmes.
Dennis opened his eyes, his gaze settling on the middle-aged gentleman, and shook his head.
“They’ll be back soon.”
With that, he closed his eyes again.
Dwight, half-convinced, hesitated but didn’t press further. He held Bev Hardy’s hand, comforting his mistress with warm, reassuring words.
She was his precious vote!
About a minute or two later, footsteps echoed at the door.
Everyone in the dining hall, except the deranged Jesse, turned toward the half-open entrance.
Squeak—.
The door swung open, a shadow flashed, and a muffled thud followed.
Looking closely, a man lay sprawled on the floor!
He had black hair, rare in the Soth Kingdom, and his usually soft features were now twisted in agony.
His right face, jaw, and near his eyes were covered in scarlet specks and blisters, while near his right ear, grayish charred scabs resembled old leather.
Though severely burned, it was clear—this was Herman Rhys, who had left to act alone not long ago!
Even more shocking, his hands were bound behind his back with cloth ropes.
Following the rope upward, a slightly cold face appeared.
Pale lips, misty blue eyes, and smooth tea-brown hair—who else but Rosie Moulton?
One hand held the rope, the other a handgun!
This unexpected pairing stunned everyone present.
Dwight, seeing the gun in the viscount’s daughter’s hand and the state of the man before her, instinctively stepped back.
Then, he caught Rosie turning her head, her gaze locking onto him.
The middle-aged gentleman, suppressing dizziness, forced a smile, striving to keep his tone steady.
“Miss Moulton, what’s this?”
Honestly, he feared she’d shoot without a word, but thankfully, she didn’t.
Instead, she lifted her leg and stomped on Herman’s back.
“This man attacked me and Mr. Bobby.
Mr. Bobby, to protect me, has already…”
The girl paused, lifting her leather boot and stomping down again, as if venting her anger, grinding her foot side to side.
“Hah—hah!!!”
Herman struggled, his vocal cords seemingly damaged, unable to speak, only letting out beastly, meaningless roars.
Already… could it be?
Dwight couldn’t help but ask, “Miss Moulton, are you saying Mr. Rhys killed Mr. Bobby?”
Rosie tilted her head, her lips curving suddenly. Instead of answering, she countered, “Mr. Nell, don’t you believe me?”
Her manic smile made the gentleman’s eyes twitch.
“I believe you, of course I do,” Dwight hurriedly affirmed.
“Hm.”
Rosie nodded, satisfied, then resumed her earlier actions—lifting her leg, stomping down, tirelessly kicking the man on the ground.
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
“Murderer.”
This scene was eerily similar to Jesse Holmes’s earlier behavior.
Dwight’s temples throbbed. In just one night, of eight people, two were dead, two were mad, and one was crippled.
Five days—could he survive?
At that moment, Dennis, silent since the girl entered, spoke up.
“Miss Moulton, you said Mr. Bobby was killed. Could you take me to where his body is?”
Rosie kicked twice more before stopping, frowning as if thinking hard.
After a long pause, she answered.
“It’s a room on the second floor. Unfortunately, due to the fight, it caught fire, but luckily, the fire was out when I left.”
Hearing her words, four words flashed in Dwight’s mind.
Destroying the body.
As expected, the place mentioned by Holmes, that demon-tempted, fallen madman, couldn’t be safe.
The second floor was in trouble.
“Want me to take you to see?” Rosie tilted her head, smiling again.
Fearing Dennis might miss the danger and agree, Dwight quickly interjected, “If it’s been burned, seeing it won’t make much difference.
More importantly, Miss Moulton, that gun in your hand is…?”
Dwight shifted the topic.
Rosie glanced at the revolver, then raised it, pointing the barrel at Dwight Nell.
“I found it in my room. Want it?”
Facing the dark muzzle, the aging merchant felt young again—too young, like an infant, nearly wetting himself.
“No, thank you, Miss Moulton. Keep it.”
Dennis seemed wary of the gun too, dropping the earlier topic and saying, “Miss Moulton, may I search Mr. Rhys’s body?”
Rosie’s story was full of holes.
She had a gun and a two-to-one advantage, yet Donahue Bobby died.
Moreover, “murderer” Herman Rhys had burns but no bullet wounds. How had she subdued him? And his “conveniently” damaged vocal cords?
Who the real “killer” was, everyone knew.
But with the gun in Rosie’s hand, her “authority” trumped the “rules.”
If she wanted to play this game, they’d play along.
As for Herman, no one cared what role he played in this charade.
In just one day since their group of eight met, cold indifference had seeped into their bones.
Rosie stepped aside, gesturing. “Be my guest, Mr. Sandek.”
Dennis briefly searched Herman’s body, less to check the “attacker” for weapons than to inspect the “victim’s” injuries.
As expected, Herman had no weapons—not even a coin.
Rosie calmly watched Dennis finish, then turned her head, her misty blue eyes fixed on the dining table, her rose-colored lips parting.
“Everyone, isn’t it time to cast today’s vote?”
Her soft, sweet voice rang in their ears like a demon’s curse.