Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue: An Exegesis of the Furuyatsuki Clan On the tenth day—as rumors began swirling that the Saint Alexei Church murder case was heading toward impasse due to Hōsui’s refusal to disclose his solution—the investigation’s leadership found themselves forced to abandon their pursuit of Lazarev’s killer from that day forth. This occurred because a poisoner like some pitch-black wind had abruptly begun haunting the Furuyatsuki mansion—a dwelling revered as a holy family since the Usuki Jesuit Seminary’s days—its malignant presence having clung to those walls for four centuries. At this Furuyatsuki residence—commonly called Kuroshikan—it had long been whispered that such uncanny terror would inevitably manifest someday. Naturally, the Furuyatsuki family’s architecture—reputed to be unique east of the Bosphorus—stood as one clear catalyst for such conjecture. Even now, when familiarity should dull astonishment, that grand Celt-Renaissance castle’s spires and turrets still evoke an eerie sensation through their massed contours—an impression forever unchanged, as though lifted from some antiquated Mackay geography tome. Yet the resplendent dazzlement that once inspired Kawanabe Kyōsai and Ochiai Yoshiiku to adorn its completion with depictions of Dragon Palace princesses during its Meiji 18 construction had dimmed with the stars’ turning. Today neither structure nor inhabitants remain mere fragments of such naive fantasies. Like natural discoloration etching desolate patches across stone, an insidious haze had imperceptibly begun shrouding this mansion. Thus it soon appeared but a nebulous clot of secrets—though this miasmal presence truly stemmed from mysteries amassed within its walls, not the surrounding ramparts modeled after Provençal fortifications. Indeed three motiveless deaths since its founding hinted at macabre patterns, compounded by four foreigners in Hatatarō’s household forming a sequestered quartet—individuals who hadn’t ventured beyond these walls for forty years since infancy. To speak of such rumors—rumors that grew fins and scales—was to confront Kuroshikan’s essence through a leaden vapor-wall. Truly, both people and edifice stood utterly decayed, their rot perhaps glimpsed as some colossal cancerous mass. Thus viewed through genetics, this historiography-esteemed lineage might resemble some grotesque fungus; yet considering current familial aberrations through late Dr. Sanzō Furuyatsuki’s mysticism, it now loomed like some dread-abandoned temple. Of course these were likely conjecture-born phantoms—save one certainty: a queer instability permeating the air, poised to rupture clandestine harmonies. This plague-air first festered after Meiji 35’s second mysterious death, then deepened into fissures when Dr. Sanzō’s bizarre suicide ten months prior—compounded by seventeen-year-old Hatatarō’s succession and their patriarch’s loss—left cracks yawning wider. Were demons indeed nested in human hearts, then from these rifts might surge self-annihilating forces—terrors dragging survivors into crime’s abyss—that society increasingly sensed looming. Yet contrary to expectations, no bubbles breached the Furuyatsuki clan’s surface—perhaps that miasma hadn’t yet saturated? No—even then beneath calm waters roared cataracts plunging into stygian currents. What festered in darkness now stormed forth seeking to still each holy family member’s pulse. Moreover, this incident’s unfathomable depths compelled Hōsui Rintarō to battle not merely a cunning killer but phantoms long departed life’s realm.

Now, as the incident commences, this author must record the astonishing investigative materials concerning Kuroshikan that had been gathered in Hōsui Rintarō’s possession. It was something that began with his eccentric hobbies concerning medieval instruments, gospel manuscripts, and ancient timepieces; yet faced with this compilation—one that likely represented the utmost efforts attainable from external sources—it had been hardly unreasonable that Prosecutor Shikura involuntarily let out a gasp and stood dumbfounded. Moreover, even when considering those meager efforts, it became clear that Hōsui himself had already been one who heeded the roar beneath the waters.

That day—the morning of January 28. Hōsui, never robust by nature, had not yet fully recovered from the fatigue of that incident which had occurred at dawn amidst sleet. Therefore, when Prosecutor Shikura—who had come to visit—told him of a murder, Hōsui made a disgusted face as if to say Oh, not again— but,

“However, Hōsui-kun—it’s the Furuyatsuki family.” After Prosecutor Shikura added, “Moreover, Mrs. Gretchen Dannenberg—the first violinist—has been poisoned,” a sudden glint appeared on Hōsui’s face reflected in the prosecutor’s eyes—not so much displeasure as keen interest. However, upon hearing this, Hōsui abruptly stood and entered his study, soon returning with an armload of books that he thudded down heavily as he reseated himself. “Let us proceed methodically, Shikura-kun. Should a murder have occurred within Japan’s most enigmatic lineage, we must inevitably devote an hour or two—at minimum—to preparatory erudition.” He lit a cigarette before continuing. “Consider that Kennel Murder Case from yesteryear—there, the ancient Chinese ceramics proved mere decorative props.” His finger tapped the book’s spine emphatically. “But this time we deal with artifacts Dr. Sanzō secreted away—craftworks dating to the Carolingian dynasty itself.” Leaning forward, his voice dropped conspiratorially: “Among such treasures, who could deny the potential presence of a Borgia jar?” With a dismissive wave at three volumes including *The 1414 Excavation Record of Saint Gal Temple*, he slid forward another book—its binding a diagonal mosaic of rinzu silk and shōbu leather gleaming dully.

“Heraldry⁉” Prosecutor Shikura cried out incredulously.

“Yeah, Terakado Yoshimichi’s *Secret Records of Heraldry*.” “It’s already become a rare book, though.” “By the way, have you ever seen a crest as strange as this?” Hōsui tapped his finger on a mysterious design where the four characters **FRCO** were encircled by a 28-leaf olive crown. “This is the crest of the Furuyatsuki family—originating from one of the Tenshō Embassy members: Chijiwa Seizaemon Naosue.” “Why is Ōtomo Sōrin’s stylized monogram placed at the center, encircled by part of the Florentine Grand Duchy’s municipal heraldic banner?” “Anyway, just read the annotation below.”

——“Claudio Acquaviva (Superior General of the Society of Jesus) Memoirs” A letter from Don Michael (referring to Chijiwa) to Gennaro Corbalta (a Venetian glassworker), contained within [the text]. [Excerpt] On that day, Father Vererio of Battalia Monastery had invited me to Holy Mass, yet when he failed to appear—just as suspicion began to stir—a towering knight burst through the door. Behold, he bore the crest of the Barossa Abbey Knights, his eyes like lightning as he spoke: “Her Grace Bianca Cappello, Grand Duchess of Francesco, secretly bore your progeny within the House of Medici in Pisa. Assign a black slave as wet nurse to the girl and have them wait beyond the clipped hedge—then you shall receive her.” Though I was astonished, as I had prior knowledge of this matter in my heart, I accepted his message and dismissed the knight. After performing penance and receiving an indulgence, I left the monastery—yet on the return voyage, the black slave died in Goa, and the infant was named Suguse, with which the House of Furuyatsuki was founded. Yet after returning to my homeland, delusions scattered through my heart, and I perceived not that the Lord had destroyed the accusatory obstacles of temptation. (The rest is omitted)

“In other words, the Furuyatsuki bloodline begins with Bianca Cappello—said to be Caterina de’ Medici’s secret child—but here’s the rub: both mother and child turned out to be horrific sadistic criminals.” “Caterina was a notorious kin-slayer—and what’s more, the mastermind behind the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. As for her daughter, emerging a century after the poisoner Lucrezia Borgia, she was hailed as the assassin of the longsword.” “However, when it reached the thirteenth generation, an extraordinary man named Sanzō appeared,” Hōsui said, extracting a photograph and newspaper clipping tucked into the book’s endpapers—but Prosecutor Shikura kept checking his watch with mounting frequency.

“Thanks to that, the matter of the Tenshō Embassy has become much clearer.” “But what connection could there possibly be between a murder that occurred four hundred years later and ancestral blood?” “It’s true that when it comes to immorality, historiography does share common ground with forensic medicine and genetics, but…” “Well, legalists do love attaching clauses to poetry,” Hōsui responded with a wry smile to the prosecutor’s sarcasm. “But it’s not as if precedents are lacking.” “In Charcot’s essays, there’s an account from Cologne where merely because an elder brother jokingly told his younger brother that their ancestor was Saint George the Dragonslayer, the younger brother ended up killing a maidservant who had overheard nuns gossiping.” “Also, upon hearing of Philip III’s deed of burning all leprosy patients in Paris to death, Bertrand—a destitute man six generations later—reportedly attempted to do the same to syphilis patients this time.” “Charcot defines this as an imperial delusion arising from bloodline consciousness,” he said, urging the prosecutor with a look that practically commanded him to behold what lay before their eyes.

The photograph appeared to be Dr. Sanzō included in the suicide article—an elderly man with a white beard so long it concealed the lowest button of his waistcoat, his melancholic countenance as if the torment of his soul smoldered deep within his heart—yet from the very beginning, Prosecutor Shikura’s gaze had been seized by another newspaper clipping. It was a brief article from their York correspondent in the June 4, 1872 issue of the *Manchester Post*, under the headline “Expelled from St. Luke Sanatorium for Japanese Medical Students.” But its contents contained something that compelled his eyes to widen involuntarily.

——Koiyoshi Furuyatsuki (Sanzō’s former name), a Japanese medical student entrusted by Braunschweig Medical School—already drawing attention for his association with Richard Burton and others—was this day repatriated to his original institution due to having slandered the Bishop of Exeter Diocese and grown intimate with Ronald Quincie, a sorcerer currently embroiled in debates over his sanity. However, Quincie—suspiciously found in possession of a vast sum of gold coins—confessed under investigation that he had relinquished to Furuyatsuki his treasured collection: a Boulez-handcopied Witchgus Codex of Spells; Waldemar I’s Therapeutic Incantations; a Hebrew manuscript titled *Judaic Esoteric Exegesis* (including mystical numerological arts such as Notariqon and Temurah); Henry Crummel’s *Spirit-Writing Methods*; an anonymous Latin manuscript on *Chaldean Pentagram Summoning Arts*; and a Hand of Glory (the mummified palm of a hanged man preserved in vinegar and dried).

To the prosecutor who had finished reading, Hōsui hurled his words in an excited tone. "So that leaves only me." "Since I alone obtained this, I'm the sole person who knows of Dr. Sanzō's connection to ancient curse methods." "No—the truth is genuinely terrifying." "If the Witchgus Codex of Spells remains somewhere in Kuroshikan—the Black Death Mansion—then besides the culprit, another enemy would be added to our ranks." "And why would that be?" "What connection could that accursed tome possibly have with Furuyatsuki?"

“The Witchgus Codex of Spells is what’s known as technical-sorcery—it’s said to wrap today’s exact sciences in a shroud of curses and evil, you see. Originally, Witchgus was one of Sylvester II’s thirteen apostles who coined the term for Arabian and Greek sciences. However, that sect recklessly launched a great enlightenment movement against the Roman Catholic Church. In the end, twelve were burned as heretics, but only Witchgus secretly escaped and is said to have completed this grand tome of technical-sorcery. Yet in later years, it allegedly formed the basis for Boccanegro’s fortification methods, Vauban’s siege tactics, Dee and Crowshaw’s magic mirrors, Cagliostro’s alchemy—even Böttger’s porcelain techniques and Hohenheim’s therapeutic medicine. Isn’t that astonishing? Furthermore, while four hundred twenty ciphers could supposedly be created from the *Judaic Esoteric Exegesis*, the rest constitute what you’d call pure sorcery—utterly preposterous contrivances. Therefore, Prosecutor Shikura, it’s safe to say we need only fear the Witchgus Codex of Spells.”

Indeed, though this prediction later materialized as fact, at that time it had not yet deeply registered on Prosecutor Shikura’s nerves; while Hōsui had gone to the adjacent room to change clothes, Prosecutor Shikura picked up another volume and opened it to a dog-eared page. It was a satirical piece by Tajima Shōji (Suitō Dōshi—author of *Stories of the Red-Light District* and others) titled *Dr. Zero-Hokurei of Our Times*, published in issue 413 of *Tokyo Shinji* on February 9, Meiji 19 (1886).

——Now then, regarding this recent upheaval of reversed fortunes—though you’d hardly believe it if told (after several lines of fixed phrases, the following classical Chinese text is inserted): Recently, sightseers were drawn to the Ōyama Highway due to the emergence in Kamiya, Kōza District, Kanagawa Prefecture, of a Western castle reminiscent of a dragon king’s undersea palace. This pertains to the construction by Nagasaki magnate Koiyoshi Furuyatsuki. Now, I shall recount its origins. Previously, Koiyoshi had received guidance from Dutch military surgeon Meerderholt at Kojimagō Sanatorium; upon moving his family to Tokyo in Meiji 3 [1870], he traveled to Germany, first studying at Braunschweig General Medical School before transferring to Berlin University. After eight years of rigorous study, he obtained two degrees and was scheduled to return home early this year. However, prior to that, two years earlier he had dispatched British engineer Claude Digsby to commence construction on what could be called Japan’s first-ever Western-style architecture at the aforementioned location. It is said that this was in part a parting gift for Thérèse Signoret—a woman from Besançon, France, whom he had married there. The region was modeled after the Savreuse Valley, the main building replicated the château of Thérèse’s birthplace, Château de Trévilliers—all to sever his nostalgic sentiments, it is said. Be that as it may, one must say it was pitiable how Thérèse perished from relapsing fever aboard the return voyage—and equally absurd how the sarcastic literary scholar Dr. Ōtori mocked this mansion as *Kuroshikan* (Black Death Mansion), deriding its imitation of Provençal castle walls by spreading rumors that even the medieval keep’s roof had been stripped open to stuff plague victims inside——.

When the prosecutor finished reading, Hōsui reappeared, having changed into outdoor clothes. But he once more sank deeply into his chair and, just then, furrowed his brows at the telephone bell that continued to ring with relentless persistence.

“That’s likely Inspector Kumajirō’s doing.” “The corpse won’t vanish—we may proceed at leisure first.” “Now then, I shall recount to you the three subsequent mysterious deaths and the still-unresolved enigma surrounding Dr.Sanzō’s conduct.” “After returning home, Dr.Sanzō obtained two degrees from Japanese universities—neurology and pharmacology—yet never entered professorial life, instead commencing a reclusive bachelor existence in silence.” “What demands our utmost attention here is not merely that the Doctor never once resided in Kuroshikan, but that in Meiji 23—a mere five years after its completion—he executed major interior renovations, fundamentally revising Digsby’s original design.” “Having established his own residence behind Kan’eiji Temple while installing his younger brother Denjirō and wife in Kuroshikan, the Doctor subsequently spent over forty years—until his suicide—in what might be termed near-total quiescence.”

Even his scholarly output consisted solely of *On Syphilis and Crime in the Tudor Family*... His presence in academia—it would not be an exaggeration to say that his entire reputation rested on his famous debate with Dr. Yagisawa. It goes like this. In Meiji 21 (1888), when Dr. Yagisawa posited his theory on hereditary criminal predisposition linked to deformities of the cranial squamous region and temporal fossa, Dr. Sanzō raised a counterargument, sparking a great year-long debate. However, this ultimately led to the extreme conclusion of experimental eugenics centered on “cultivating humans”—just as people were beginning to swallow their anxiety over where this might lead. “Strangely enough, as if by some tacit agreement between them, their opposition abruptly vanished in a manner most unnatural.” “However, though unrelated to this debate, in Kuroshikan—the Black Death Mansion—now devoid of Dr. Sanzō, a succession of bizarre mysterious deaths occurred.” The first incident occurred in Meiji 29 (1896), when Denjirō—having brought in his mistress Kamitori Misaho while his legal wife was hospitalized—had his carotid artery severed by her with a paper cutter on their very first night together; Misaho then committed suicide at the scene. Then came the next incident six years later in Meiji 35 (1902), when Lady Fudeko—the Doctor’s widowed cousin—was likewise strangled by her beloved Kamigata actor Arashi Taijūrō, who then hanged himself on the spot without leaving the scene. “And so, with these two murder cases lacking any discernible motives—indeed, gathering only opposing interpretations—they were reluctantly buried as crimes of impulse, swept under the rug.” Now, in Kuroshikan—which had lost its master—for a time they had Tsutako, Sanzō’s half-niece—as you know, she’s now the wife of Dr. Oshikane, director of Tokyo Shinkei Hospital, but was once a leading actress of late Taisho New Theater—as their master when she was merely three years old. Then in Taisho 4, an unexpected boy was conceived by Sanzō’s mistress Iwase Tomie. “That is none other than the current head, Hatatarō.” “And so, over thirty-some uneventful years passed until March of last year, when a third mysterious death incident with no discernible motive occurred.” “This time, it was Dr. Sanzō who committed suicide,” he said, pulling over a binder of documents at his side and searching out the records pertaining to the Doctor’s suicide from among the autopsy reports sent by the authorities for each notable incident.

“Now then—”

——The wound was a dagger stab wound of standard configuration that penetrated between the left fifth and sixth ribs into the left ventricle; Dr. Sanzō lay supine at the room’s center, clutching its hilt tightly, his feet toward the door and head facing the rear drapery. His countenance displayed a dementia-like slackness tinged with sorrowful undertones; the scene was a dimly lit room with armored doors tightly shut, where family members reported hearing no sounds and objects showed no signs of disturbance; furthermore, beyond the aforementioned wound, there were no other injuries—and it was confirmed that the incident had occurred less than ten minutes after he entered the room clasping a Western female doll. The doll was a life-sized figure clad in late Louis-era courtly attire with fluted collars, positioned upon a bed behind the drapery; the suicide dagger was presumed to have been this talismanic blade. Moreover, Dr. Sanzō’s personal circumstances revealed a complete absence of discernible motive—how could an aging scholar of such dedication, nearing life’s natural end, have performed such an irrational act? This point, one must concede, presents profound difficulties of interpretation——.

“What do you think, Prosecutor Shikura? Even with over thirty years separating us from the second mysterious death incident, the point remains glaringly consistent—clear cause of death yet no discernible motive.” “So don’t you think whatever invisible thing lurks there has manifested itself in Mrs. Dannenberg this time?”

“That’s rather fanciful speculation,” Prosecutor Shikura retorted in a reproving tone. “In the second incident, all contextual continuity was completely severed. That Kamigata actor—what was his name again?—isn’t he someone outside the Furuyatsuki clan?”

“Do you truly believe that’s how it stands? How much trouble must you go through?” Hōsui rolled his eyes dramatically. “By the way, Prosecutor Shikura, there’s an oddball detective novelist who’s emerged recently—Kojiro Gyotaro. In his latest work, *Considerations on Modern Labyrinthine Cases*, he discusses the famous *Cudaby Collapse Records*. The House of Cudaby, which flourished in the late Victorian era, was also eradicated in exactly the same manner as Furuyatsuki’s three incidents. The first incident occurred on the morning when Lord Cudaby—the Court Poetry and Prose Master Reciter—was about to leave for his duties. When Anne—his wife, then rife with rumors of infidelity—attempted to bid him farewell with a kiss, wrapping her arm around his shoulder, Lord Cudaby abruptly drew his dagger and thrust it into the tapestry behind him. However, the one who collapsed dyed crimson was his eldest son Walter; aghast, Lord Cudaby pierced his own heart in a counterblow. Next came seven years later—the suicide of the second son, Kent. Despite being challenged to a duel by a friend who had thrown a wine cup at his right cheek, he maintained an indifferent expression—which became the subject of ridicule and is said to have driven him to take his life out of shame for his tarnished reputation. However, the same fate befell Georgia—the daughter left behind—two years later. On their wedding night with Georgia—for reasons unknown—she insulted her partner, who flew into a rage and strangled her atop the new marriage bed. That marked the end of the Cudabys. However, Kojiro Gyotaro discovered a scientific lineage within those three incidents—seemingly explicable only by fatalism. And he makes this definitive assertion: The conclusion is that it is nothing more than hereditary Gubler’s paralysis—suddenly manifesting on the right side of the face. In other words, the lord’s stabbing of his eldest son resulted from a mistaken belief that when his wife’s hand touched his right cheek without sensation, she must have been reaching for her secret lover concealed behind the drapery; thus, while the second son’s suicide requires no explanation, he deduces that the daughter too—due to Gubler’s paralysis—likely voiced dissatisfaction with caresses. Of course, it’s undoubtedly an utterly self-serving fantasy typical of detective writers. However, the three Furuyatsuki incidents at least suggest a chain of events. Still—he’s certainly pried open a sliver of light for us. However, it’s not confined solely to the narrow realm of genetics alone. Within that monumental vastness, there must surely lurk something unimaginably terrifying.”

“Hmm—if the heir had been killed, that would make for a proper story.” “But Dannenberg…” The prosecutor tilted his head slightly before countering, “By the way—this ‘doll’ mentioned in the records…” “That would be Madame Thérèse’s memorial effigy.” “It’s said to be a life-sized automaton commissioned from the Kopeckýs—Bohemia’s renowned marionette artisans.” “Yet what defies comprehension most is the string quartet’s four members.” “Dr. Sanzō brought them from overseas as nursing infants and, for over forty years, never once permitted them beyond the mansion’s walls—so it’s claimed.”

“Hmm—isn’t it said that only a few critics ever see their faces at the annual concert?”

“That’s right.” “They must have that eerie wax-colored skin,” Hōsui affirmed, his gaze steady. “But why did Dr. Sanzō force those four to lead such bizarre lives? And why did the four meekly comply? But you see, in mainland Japan, people merely found it curious and no one conducted any thorough investigation—but I happened to discover an enthusiast in the United States who had investigated everything from the quartet’s birthplaces to their social standings.” “I think it’s safe to say this is probably the only existing material concerning that quartet.”

And what he picked up was the February 1901 issue of the *Hartford Evangelist*—the last one remaining on the desk.

“Let’s read it. The author is someone named Fallow—it’s an account from the church music section.”

That such medieval-style mystic musicians should still exist in Japan—of all places—is surely one of the rarest wonders imaginable. Even if one traces back through music history, it culminates in a single incident from long ago: Elector Karl Theodor of Mannheim training six masked musicians in the palace gardens of Schwetzingen. Herein, I—drawn by these intriguing rumors—devised various strategies to investigate and finally managed to learn only the identities of the four individuals. Namely, Gretchen Dannenberg—First Violinist—was the third daughter of Ulrich, supervisor of the hunting district in Marienberg Village, Tyrol Prefecture, Austria. Galibalda Serena—Second Violinist—was the sixth daughter of Galicarini, a metal caster in Brindisi City, Italy. Viola player Olga Krivov was the fourth daughter of Murgochi, a landowner in Tagantziisk Village, Caucasus Province, Russia. Cellist Ottokar Levez was the second son of Dr. Hadnack from Kontarza Town, Hungary. All hailed from notable families in various regions. However, it must be said that whether Dr. Sanzō Furuyatsuki, the owner of said orchestra, truly studied Karl Theodor’s extravagant Rococo tastes remains entirely unclear.

Hōsui's materials concerning the Furuyatsuki clan were now exhausted; their exceedingly complex contents served only to further befuddle Prosecutor Shikura's mind. Yet the single phrase "Witchgus Codex of Spells"—which he had uttered with terror etched across his features—lingered on his retina like a white flower glimpsed in a dream. And as for Hōsui—how could he have foreseen at that moment that ahead of him lay a grotesque corpse unprecedented in murder's annals?

Part One: Revolving Around a Corpse and Two Doors

I. The Radiant Miracle

When the private railway T Line reached its terminus, that place was already within Kanagawa Prefecture. And the stretch up to the hill overlooking Kuroshikan was lined with oak windbreaks and bamboo groves—up to that point, an unremarkable northern Sagami landscape. But once one reached the hilltop, the scenery viewed from above transformed into something utterly different in character. It could be said to resemble exactly northern Scotland where Macbeth’s domain of Cawdor once lay. There were neither trees nor grasses there. By the time one arrived at that point, even the sea breeze had exhausted its moisture, leaving the surface of parched soil weathered to a gray hue resembling rock salt. At the base of a rugged, gently sloping depression lay what might have been a pitch-black lake—a desolate vista akin to this stretching all the way to walls resembling a mortar’s base. The cause of that reddish-brown soil and sand lay in high-latitude plants said to have been transplanted during construction—all having perished in an instant. However, up to the main gate ran a meticulously maintained motor road, and beneath the main building’s protruding cut stone wall—known as *collapsed bastion remnants*—stood an iron door adorned with thistle and grape leaf patterns. That day, following the previous night’s freezing rain, layered clouds hung low—accompanied by an unnervingly human-like warmth, perhaps from shifting atmospheric pressure—while occasional faint lightning flickered and grumbling thunder rolled sluggishly through the lethargic air. Amid that bleak sky, Kuroshikan’s colossal two-story structure—particularly the chapel’s central spire and flanking turrets—stood smeared within a wash of pale ink as if painted with a single brushstroke, forming a resin-like monochrome painting.

Hōsui stopped the car by the main gate and began walking through the front garden. Behind the wall enclosure was a low red-lattice fence entwined with roses, beyond which lay a geometrically arranged Le Nôtre-style flower garden. The pathways crisscrossing the flower garden were dotted here and there with colonnaded pavilions, statues of water deities and Psyche, or whimsical animal figures. The central avenue—laid diagonally with red bricks and edged with blue-glazed tiles—was presumably what they called the herringbone-patterned pavement. The main building was encircled by a trimmed hedge of water pines, and around the wall enclosure stood symbolic trees—Japanese cypresses and thread cedars—pruned into the shapes of various animals and initials in a hedge-like manner. In front of the trimmed hedge stood a fountain of Parnassus statues, and as Hōsui approached, it suddenly emitted a strange sound and began to spray mist.

“Prosecutor Shikura—this is what they call the Fountain of Dread. That sound, and the way it sprays water like bullets—it’s all hydraulic pressure,” Hōsui remarked offhandedly, dodging the spray. Yet Prosecutor Shikura could not help but feel an eerie premonition emanating from this Baroque-style contrivance.

Then Hōsui stood before the trimmed hedge and began surveying the main building. The central part of the main building—constructed as an elongated rectangle—protruded in a semicircle, with two projecting rooms flanking its left and right. Only the outer walls of these sections adopted a crude pre-Romanesque style from the 9th century, their surfaces formed by small rose-colored cut stones set in mortar. That section was undoubtedly the chapel. However, the windows of the projecting rooms had rose-shaped windows set within arched lattices, and upon seeing that the central mural also contained a stained-glass rosette window depicting the zodiac, these stylistic contradictions likely captured Hōsui’s interest. However, the remaining sections were constructed of basalt ashlar masonry, with windows featuring two-tiered armored doors that stood nearly ten shaku in height. The entrance was located to the left of the chapel; had he not spotted the plainclothes officer by the large door with its knocker, Hōsui’s dreamlike propensity for analysis might never have been awakened. Yet even during this interval, Prosecutor Shikura had been incessantly sensing a tingling in Hōsui’s nerves—a phenomenon attributable to how Shikura, after beginning with the central high tower resembling a bell tower, surveyed the steep roofs stretching from the area dense with oddly shaped dormers and chimneys to the flanking turrets, then lowered his gaze to direct his face toward the wall surface while repeatedly moving his jaw up and down. This behavior, repeated several times, gave the vague impression of someone conducting mathematical comparisons. Sure enough, this prediction proved accurate. Despite not having seen the corpse from the beginning, Hōsui was already probing the mansion’s atmosphere, extracting from it something akin to a crystalline essence.

The far end of the entrance opened into a hall where an elderly servant who had been waiting there took the lead and guided them to the grand staircase room on the right. On its floor lay a mosaic of lilac and dark-red cloisonné patterns whose contrast with the mural winding along the circular corridor near the ceiling—heightened by the unadorned wall between them—created indescribable chromatic intensity. After ascending the horseshoe-shaped staircase that splayed outward at its base, they reached a stairwell corridor from which another short staircase extended upward toward the next floor. High on all three walls of this stairwell hung enlarged reproductions—each measuring seven shaku vertically and over ten shaku horizontally—flanking Gabriel Max's *The Anatomy Lesson* at center: Gérard David's *The Flaying of Sisamnes* to the left and Jean-François de Troy's *The 1720 Plague of Marseille* to the right. That only such macabre works had been selected remained deeply perplexing. Yet what immediately arrested Hōsui's attention were two medieval armored samurai statues standing rigidly before *The Anatomy Lesson*. Both gripped banner poles from whose spearheads hung two distinct tapestries meeting above the painting. The right-hand tapestry showed an Anglo-Dutch landowner in Quaker attire unfurling an estate map while holding an English surveyor's chain measure; the left depicted a Roman Catholic Mass. Though these were merely conventional symbols of wealth and piety among aristocratic households—things one might expect Hōsui to disregard—he instead summoned the servant and began questioning him.

“Are these armored samurai statues always kept here?” “Oh no, they’ve only been here since last night.” “Before seven o’clock, they were placed at both ends of the staircase, but by eight they’d somehow moved all the way up here.” “Who could possibly have done such a thing?” “Precisely.” “You’d understand if you’ve seen the Marquise de Montespan’s Château de Clagny.” “The standard practice is to place them at both ends of the staircase,” Hōsui remarked with a casual nod before turning to the prosecutor. “Shikura—try lifting one.” “Notice how relatively light it is?” “Of course—these aren’t functional pieces.” “All armor from the sixteenth century onward became purely decorative.” “When the Louis reigns began, relief carving techniques grew more refined—they required thicker metal until eventually you couldn’t even walk while wearing them.” “So judging by weight alone, this must predate Donatello—hmm, perhaps Massagglia or Sansovino?”

“Well, well—when did you become Philo Vance?” “You could sum it up in one word—‘It’s not so heavy you can’t carry it upstairs,’” Prosecutor Shikura sneered with biting sarcasm. “But was it absolutely necessary to move these armored statues upstairs? Or was it necessary to have them upstairs?” “Of course, they were necessary here.” “In any case, observe the three paintings.” “Plague, punishment, dissection—that’s what they are.” “And there’s one more thing the criminal added—that’s murder.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” As the prosecutor involuntarily widened his eyes, Hōsui spoke in a voice tinged with mild excitement. “In other words, this symbolizes the Furuyatsuki Incident this time.” “The criminal raises this great banner and declares slaughter in secrecy.” “Or perhaps it’s an intention to challenge us.” “Now, Prosecutor Shikura—the two armored samurai: the one on the right grips his banner pole in his right hand, and the one on the left in his left hand.” “However, considering when they’re at the base of the stairs, isn’t it standard practice for the right one to hold it in his left hand and the left one in his right hand to maintain compositional balance?” “In that case, the current arrangement would mean they were placed with left and right reversed.” “In other words, starting from the left side—where the banner of wealth (the English acre) and the banner of faith (the Mass) had been reversed—...therein emerges the terrifying will of the criminal.”

“What?”

“It’s Mass (the Eucharist) and acre (the land measure). Now try reading them together.” “When faith and wealth transform into Massacre—murder,” Hōsui remarked upon seeing the prosecutor’s stunned expression, “but I doubt that’s all there is to it.” “I intend to discover something more tangible from these armored samurai statues’ positions eventually,” Hōsui declared, then turned to the servant: “Now—between seven and eight last night, did anyone witness anything regarding these statues?”

“There were none.” “Unfortunately, that hour coincided with our mealtime.” Then Hōsui dismantled each armored samurai statue one by one and examined their surroundings—from the niche-shaped wall lamps between the paintings to the upper portion of *The Anatomy Lesson* hidden beneath the banners—but found nothing of value at all. That section of the painting, too, near the edge of the background, was nothing more than a disorderly array of multicolored stripes.

Then, leaving the stairwell corridor, they ascended to the upper staircase—but at that moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, Hōsui abruptly began an uncanny series of movements. He turned back halfway and stood at the summit of the grand staircase they had originally climbed. Then, taking a grid-patterned notebook from his coat pocket, he counted the steps and seemed to sketch lightning-like lines within it. Even Prosecutor Shikura found himself compelled to retrace his steps at this spectacle.

“Oh, I just conducted a bit of psychological analysis, that’s all,” Hōsui answered the prosecutor’s question in a hushed voice, mindful of the servant upstairs. “Once I’ve reached certainty, I’ll share my thoughts, but as things stand now, there’s not a single piece of material to interpret it with.” “I’m afraid I can only state this much for now.” “When we were coming up the stairs earlier, wasn’t there a roar of an engine—like a police car—coming from the entrance?” At that moment, that servant was able to hear a faint sound that should have been drowned out by the clamorous noise. “Listen, Prosecutor Shikura—it’s a sound that could never be heard under normal circumstances.”

How on earth had Hōsui discerned such a glaringly contradictory phenomenon? Yet he added that despite this, the servant bore not a shred of suspicion—and since he did not even inquire after the servant’s name, any conclusion naturally grew nebulous, leaving this matter as an enigma he had posed.

At the front of the top of the stairs lay a corridor leading to a chamber fortified with rock-hewn defenses. Behind its iron-barred door stood several stone steps, beyond which glimmered a black-lacquered vault-like entrance. Yet when Hōsui learned this was the ancient clock chamber—aware of its collection’s staggering worth—he found himself nodding at what had first struck him as the collector’s lunatic fastidiousness. From that nexus point, corridors stretched left and right. Doors punctuated each interval, leaving the spaces between them tunnel-dark even at noon, their niches perpetually lit. The walls bore only vermilion earthenware lines—sole adornment in that mineral gloom. After turning left at their chosen corridor’s dead end and crossing to its opposite side, Hōsui found a brief colonnade flanking him, its pillars shadowing rows of Japanese armor displays. The colonnade’s mouth opened onto a circular passage beneath the grand staircase hall’s domed ceiling, where at its terminus another corridor materialized. But as Hōsui took in the hexafoil wall lamps flanking this entrance and moved to enter—he froze mid-step, transfixed by some fresh horror.

“There’s another one here,” he said, pointing to the foremost piece in a row of displayed armor—suits arranged atop armor chests—on the left side. What possible anomaly could there be in this scarlet-laced neck guard armor crowned with a three-plate black-haired deer-antlered helmet? Prosecutor Shikura retorted with a half-exasperated look. “The helmets have been swapped,” Hōsui stated in a businesslike tone. “All those on the opposite side are hanging suits—suspended ones—but if you examine the neck guard’s construction, you’ll discern what’s placed atop the second tanned leather cuirass of inferior armor.” “That is a lion-biting Pleiades-crested side-fine-hoe helmet worn by high-ranking young warriors.” “Also, on this side, a fierce black-haired deer-antlered piece rests atop elegant scarlet-laced armor.” “Hey, Prosecutor Shikura—they say all discord conceals a wicked will,” Hōsui declared, then verified this with the servant, who now wore a look of astonishment.

“Yes, that is correct. Until last evening, it was exactly as you stated,” he answered without hesitation. Then, passing through the countless suits of armor lining both sides, they emerged into the corridor beyond—a dead-end passage—where to the left stood a door leading to the terrace of the spiral staircase on the side of the main building. The fifth room on the right was the crime scene. On both sides of the thick door, a holy painting depicting Jesus healing a hunchback was carved in relief with an archaic and wild composition. Beyond that single door lay Gretchen Dannenberg’s corpse.

When the door opened, Inspector Kumajirō—chief of the investigation bureau—was gnawing the rubber eraser of his pencil in vexation, facing a woman in her mid-twenties who had turned away. When he saw the two men, he narrowed the corners of his eyes as if censuring their belated arrival, but— "Hōsui, the Buddha’s behind that drape," he barked brusquely, abandoning his interrogation of the woman altogether. Yet considering how Kumajirō had relinquished his duties the instant Hōsui arrived, and how intermittent shadows of dazed slackness—something like stupefaction—drifted across his expression, it required little effort to imagine the magnitude of shock that corpse behind the drape had dealt him.

Hōsui first directed his attention to the woman present there. She had a charmingly round face with a double chin—not what one would call a great beauty—yet her large doe eyes, celadon-tinged dark circles beneath them, and taut wheat-colored skin created a remarkably alluring combination. Wearing a grape-colored afternoon dress, she proactively introduced herself as Dr. Sanzō Furuyatsuki’s secretary, Kamiya Nobuko—but in stark contrast to her mellifluous voice, her face was suffused with terror and had turned the color of terra-cotta. When she left, Hōsui began silently pacing about the room. The chamber was spacious yet dimly lit, and with its sparse furnishings, echoed desolately. At the center of the floor lay a Coptic textile patterned with Jonah in the belly of a great fish, while that section itself featured wheel-patterned marquetry of colored marble and hazel wood pieces alternately arranged. Flanking this area, walnut and oak parquetry extended from floor to wall on both sides, studded with inlays that exuded a subdued medieval hue. From the high ceiling seeped black stains of age dark enough to obscure the wood grain, while from their vicinity drifted down a sinister air—one might call it ghostly—that settled thickly about the room. There was only one entrance door through which they had come; to the left stood two two-tiered armor-plated windows opening onto a side garden, while on the right-hand wall rose a massive fireplace built up with dozens of stone blocks, its center carved with the Furuyatsuki family crest. Directly ahead hung a black velvet drape as heavy as lead. Nearer to the door and fireplace along the wall stood a platform about three shaku high where a naked hunchback and a famed legislator—an Egyptian statue seated in meditation—were placed back-to-back. Closer to the windows, a tall screen partitioned off an area containing a sofa and two or three side tables. When he moved to the corner away from the others, the pungent stench of ancient mold assailed his nostrils. On the mantelpiece lay dust accumulated to five bu in depth. When someone brushed against the drape, a choking powder burst from the velvet’s weave—glittering silver as it cascaded down like spray. At a glance, it was clear this room had gone unused for years. At last Hōsui parted the heavy drape and peered inside—but in that instant all expression froze on his face. Unaware of Prosecutor Shikura’s hand reflexively clutching his shoulder from behind, insensible to the undulating tremor that followed, his ears rang and his face burned like fire until the world beyond the astonishing sight before him seemed to vanish into some distant void.

Behold! From the corpse of Mrs. Dannenberg lying there emanated a sacred radiance, resplendent and brilliant. As if wrapped in a mist of light, a clear bluish-white glow flowed through a space about an inch above her surface, snugly enveloping her entire body and causing it to emerge dimly from the shadows. The light possessed a cold, crystalline reverence in its dignity, yet within it swirled a hazy milky-white turbidity—could this be some unfathomable divine revelation from the abyss? The shadows of her grotesque death mask softened into dignified composure beneath it, and an ineffable serenity now enveloped her entire form. From within that dreamlike solemnity, one might have heard the blast of an angel's trumpet. As the resonant toll of sacred bells seemed poised to thunder forth—as that divine light appeared ready to transform into golden rays—ah, had Mrs. Dannenberg been extolled for her chastity and welcomed as a saint in final ecstasy? Unbidden sighs escaped them until they stood powerless to contain their awe. Yet simultaneously, that light illuminated three stupefied faces standing rigidly nearby. Hōsui finally regained his composure and began his investigation, but when he opened the armor-plated window, the luminescence faded to near-invisibility. The corpse's entire body had hardened into rigor mortis—clearly over ten hours had passed since death—yet Hōsui remained unshaken, clinging relentlessly to scientific rigor. After confirming the light's presence within her oral cavity, he turned the corpse face down and drove his scalpel decisively into the vivid crimson lividity staining her back. When he tilted the body slightly, thick blood oozing out instantly formed reddish-haloed walls within the corpse glow—walls that split like shattered mist, leaving in their fissure shadows of blood sluggishly snaking through. Neither Prosecutor Shikura nor Inspector Kumajirō could endure looking upon this ghastly spectacle.

“There’s no light in the blood,” Hōsui muttered disapprovingly as he withdrew his hands from the corpse. “At present, there’s nothing else to call it but a miracle.” “It’s long been clear that it isn’t being emitted from an external source—there’s no phosphorous odor. If it were a radium compound, it would cause necrosis on the skin, and there are no such marks on the clothing.” “It’s definitely being emitted from the skin.” “And this light has neither heat nor odor.” “It’s what’s called cold light.”

“So, can we still call this a poisoning?” Prosecutor Shikura challenged Hōsui. “Yeah, if you look at the blood’s color and lividity, it’s obvious,” Hōsui responded. “It’s clear cyanide poisoning.” “But Hōsui,” Shikura pressed, “how were these strange tattoo-like wound patterns created? This is precisely your domain—you who relish the bizarre and wallow in anomalies.” He let slip a self-mocking laugh unbefitting his obstinate nature.

Indeed, following the bizarre radiance, there was yet another corpse phenomenon that left Hōsui wide-eyed. The bed where Mrs. Dannenberg lay was positioned just inside the drape—a Louis-period peach wood construction crowned with pinecone-shaped finials atop its posts and fitted with a lace canopy. The corpse lay nearly at the far right edge of the bed in a prone position; her right hand twisted backward with the dorsum placed atop her buttocks, while her left hand dangled down from the bed. This woman—her silver hair carelessly tied back, clad in a black twill-weave single-layer robe, her hooked nose drooping to her upper lip in Jewish-style features—had died with her face contorted into an S-shape, leaving behind a truly grotesque and comical visage. But what proved strange were the patterned incisions appearing on both temples. They resembled tattoo stencils—shallow abrasions as if swiftly drawn with a slender sharp needle, skillfully shaving only the epidermis. On both sides they formed nearly circular shapes about one sun in diameter, around which clustered short linear marks akin to centipede legs. From the wound openings oozed only a yellowish serum, but what crawled across this menopausal woman's ravaged skin evoked not so much ghastly beauty as desiccated pinworm carcasses—or perhaps the long fecal strands excreted by eerie flagellates. And as for its origin—whether internal or external—the question had become so inscrutable that even speculation proved nearly impossible. However, Hōsui's eyes—having withdrawn from that gruesome microscopic pattern—unexpectedly met the prosecutor's gaze. And through silent accord, they found themselves compelled to confront a shared bone-chilling realization. For the shape of those wounds was none other than the 28-leaf olive crown from Florence's civic emblem—a key component of the Furuyatsuki family crest.

II. Thérèse Hath Slain Me

“No matter how I look at it, I can’t think otherwise,” Prosecutor Shikura stammered repeatedly after explaining the Furuyatsuki crest to Kumajirō. “Why wasn’t it enough for the killer to merely snuff out her life? Why did they have to go so far as to perform such inexplicable actions?” “But you see, Shikura,” Hōsui said at last, placing a cigarette between his lips. “What staggers me more is my own discovery at this very moment. This corpse died mere seconds after the carvings were completed. That is to say—it was neither post-mortem work nor done before she ingested the poison.”

“This is no joke!” Inspector Kumajirō blurted out in exasperation, his face twisting with disbelief. “If this wasn’t instant death, then I’ll gladly hear your explanation!” he snapped heatedly—only for Hōsui to respond in a tone one might use to admonish a petulant child,

“Well, the culprit in this case is truly swift and insidious—utterly heinous. However, my reasoning here is remarkably simple. You’re fundamentally overestimating severe cyanide poisoning. While respiratory muscles likely paralyze instantly, one can safely assume at least two minutes would pass before complete cardiac arrest. Yet corpse phenomena appearing on the skin’s surface manifest simultaneously with declining heart function.” Hōsui paused, fixing his gaze intently on the prosecutor. “Once you grasp this principle, I doubt you’ll dispute my conclusion. Now observe—this wound was skillfully incised through only the epidermis. The absence of subcutaneous hemorrhaging or swelling around its edges would normally indicate post-mortem infliction on a living body. Yet here,” he gestured at the laceration’s margins, “no scab has formed at the peeled edges. It might as well be transparent ganpi paper—but this,” his finger hovered over desiccated tissue, “is undeniably an ante-mortem phenomenon.” His voice sharpened like a scalpel. “These contradictory findings render any coherent physiological explanation impossible during her final moments. Therefore—shouldn’t we determine precisely when nails and epidermal cells die to resolve this impasse?”

Hōsui’s meticulous observations had paradoxically deepened the mystery of the wound sigils, and this new terror left Prosecutor Shikura’s voice utterly devoid of equilibrium.

“We must await a thorough analysis of all factors.” “Even so—to not be satisfied with merely conjuring a supernatural phenomenon like corpse luminescence, then go so far as imprinting the Furuyatsuki brand…” “To me, this immaculate light has grown profoundly obscene in its perversity.” “No, the culprit isn’t courting spectators.” “It demands precisely the psychological barrier you’re now experiencing.” “How could that wretch harbor such pathological individuality?” “And yet—it’s undeniably creative.” “But as Heilbronner would phrase it,” Hōsui remarked with a shadowed smile, “the most perversely original things are deemed childish.” He then pivoted brusquely: “Now then, Inspector Kumajirō—when did the corpse’s luminescence manifest?”

“At first, it went unnoticed because the desk lamp was lit.” “However, around ten o’clock—once we’d completed the preliminary autopsy and finished investigating this section—we closed the armored door and turned off the desk lamp, then…” Kumajirō gulped loudly before continuing, “So not only the household staff but even some officers were completely unaware of it.” “Now then, let me brief you on the facts we’ve compiled so far,” he began, recounting the overall account.

“Last night, the household held a gathering where Mrs. Dannenberg collapsed—precisely at nine o’clock.” “She was then nursed in this room through the night by Kuga Chinako from the library and Kawanabe Ekisuke, the maître d’hôtel—but potassium cyanide had been planted in the Western orange she ate around midnight.” “Traces were indeed found in the masticated pulp remaining in her oral cavity—most perplexingly concentrated in the very first segment she ingested.” “Thus I can only conclude the culprit struck the bullseye with their first attempt by sheer coincidence.” “Though these other segments remain intact as you see, they contain no trace of the drug.”

“So… in the Western orange⁉” Hōsui muttered, slightly shaking the canopy post. “Then that means another mystery has been added. That would mean the culprit has absolutely no knowledge of poisons.”

“However, among the servants, there was no one particularly suspicious.” “Both Kuga Chinako and Ekisuke stated that Mrs. Dannenberg herself selected it from the fruit plate.” “Moreover, this room was locked around eleven-thirty—the glass windows and armored doors caked with rust like mold—leaving no signs of external intrusion.” “Yet strangely enough, they say the pear on that same plate was far more to Mrs. Dannenberg’s liking.”

“What, the lock?” Prosecutor Shikura appeared aghast at the contradiction arising between this and the wound sigils, yet Hōsui—still not tearing his gaze from Kumajirō—declared brusquely, “I’m not saying that in the sense you mean. Precisely because they’ve masked the cyanide with this Western orange facade—that very act makes the culprit’s remarkable talent all the more terrifying. Just consider it—can you believe they used over ten times the lethal dose of a poison with such a pronounced stench and distinctive bitterness? Moreover, the camouflage they’ve used is a Western orange—a fruit woefully inadequate for such a purpose. Now, Kumajirō—how could such an utterly clumsy method achieve this magical effect? Why did Mrs. Dannenberg reach for only that Western orange? In other words, that very astonishing contradiction is the poisoner’s pride. For them, ever since the Lombardian witch first manifested, this has been nothing less than an eternal and immortal object of worship.”

Inspector Kumajirō was taken aback, but Hōsui, as if recalling something, asked.

“And the time of death?”

“Given that this morning’s eight o’clock autopsy determined eight hours post-mortem, the time of death perfectly coincides with when she ate the Western orange.” The discovery had occurred at half past five at dawn, and until then, both attendants remained unaware of the incident; furthermore, no one had entered this room after eleven o’clock, and the family’s movements were entirely unknown. “And this here is the fruit plate that held that Western orange.” With that, Inspector Kumajirō took out a large silver plate from beneath the bed. It was a chalice-shaped object nearly two feet in diameter, its exterior adorned with a bas-relief of Aivazovsky’s depiction of the Xiongnu tribe’s reindeer hunt, executed in the characteristically rigid lines of Russian Byzantine style. At the plate’s base stood an inverted fantastical reptile—its head and forelimbs forming a pedestal, its spiked torso curving in a U-shape as hind limbs and tail supported the dish. On the opposite side of that U-shaped curve was attached a semicircular handle. The pears and Western oranges upon it had all been split in two, bearing traces of forensic examination, though no poison appeared present in any of them. Yet within the one that felled Mrs. Dannenberg, a striking peculiarity had manifested. Unlike the other Western oranges, it displayed not an orange hue but rather the intense reddish tone of molten lava—a large blood orange. Moreover, its overripe burnt umber coloration gave it an unnerving resemblance to half-coagulated blood paste, though this chromatic oddity merely teased the nerves without yielding investigative clues. From the absence of a stem, investigators inferred that viscous potassium cyanide had been injected there.

Hōsui took his eyes off the fruit plate and began pacing about the room. The curtain-partitioned section contrasted starkly with the front chamber—its walls uniformly coated in gray mortar, floor covered by a plain carpet of matching hue, windows smaller and set higher than those in the antechamber plunging the interior into damp twilight. Gray walls, gray floor, black draperies—had one mentioned these elements, they might have evoked stage designs from Gordon Craig's era. Yet these lifeless base tones rendered the chamber all the more oppressive. Here too, like the front room, decay had been left unchecked—each footstep sent stratified dust cascading from the upper walls. The furnishings consisted solely of a standing desk shaped like an oversized sake jar beside the bed, its surface holding a memo pinned by a broken pencil, twenty-four diopter tortoiseshell spectacles likely removed when the victim lay down, and a desk lamp swathed in painting silk. With nearsightedness of that degree, objects would merely blur at the edges while remaining identifiable—hardly worth closer examination. Hōsui moved with the measured gait of a gallery patron appraising twin masterpieces when Prosecutor Shikura's voice interrupted from behind.

“So after all, Hōsui—miracles lie beyond all natural laws... don’t they?”

“Hmm, this is all I’ve ascertained,” Hōsui replied tonelessly. “It’s as though the culprit—like Teru—drove cyanide into their victim’s stomach with a single arrow-strike, more brutally than if administered openly.” “Meaning that until reaching this final conclusion, an apparatus capable of manifesting both light and wound sigils was essential.” “Put another way: those two elements function as catalytic reinforcements to perfect the crime—a profound scholarly principle indispensable to its execution.”

“Don’t be absurd. Your wild theories are getting out of hand,” Inspector Kumajirō exasperatedly interjected, but Hōsui calmly continued his bizarre theory. “After all, they had to break into a locked room and carve those sigils within a minute or two.” “In that case—though it’s not Crile we’re dealing with here.” “Even if forced, they must aim for that mysterious physiological mechanism.” “Moreover, doubts still remain—both in the shape of her right hand twisted backward and in the small hook-shaped tear on her right shoulder.”

“No, none of that matters.” Inspector Kumajirō spat out, “She swallowed the Western orange while prone and instantly became defenseless—that’s all there is to it.” “But Inspector Kumajirō, if you consult Adolf Henke’s old forensic medicine text, you’ll find a fascinating case where a prostitute—lying sideways with her arm wedged beneath her body—ingested poison. Yet when the shock struck, her numbed arm moved against all odds and hurled the bottle out the window into the river.” “So I believe we must at least attempt to reconstruct the initial bodily posture.” “And regarding the corpse’s luminescence—in Aurino’s *Collection of Miracles of the Holy Monks* and…”

“Ah, so a monk would have something to do with murder,” Inspector Kumajirō blatantly feigned disinterest, but suddenly grew agitated and tried to pull something from his coat pocket. Hōsui did not even turn around, calling out over his shoulder, “By the way, Kumajirō—what about the fingerprints?” “If we’re talking about plausible explanations, there are countless. Moreover, when they moved the victim into this empty room last night, they apparently cleaned the bed and used a vacuum cleaner only on the floor. Unfortunately, there are no footprints to speak of.”

“Hmm, is that so?” It was before the dead-end wall that Hōsui stopped after saying this. There, at a height that would align with an average person’s face, remained traces suggesting something like a framed object had recently been removed—marks imprinted with striking freshness. However, when he turned back from there and returned to his original position, Hōsui—having noticed something in the desk lamp—abruptly turned to face the prosecutor. “Shikura, close the window,” he said.

Prosecutor Shikura looked bewildered but complied with his request. Bathed once more in the corpse’s unearthly glow, Hōsui lit the desk lamp. It was only then that the prosecutor realized the bulb was a carbon filament type scarcely seen nowadays, leading him to surmise that the furnishings hastily brought in for the occasion had likely been stored away for a long time. Hōsui’s eyes traced the semicircle drawn by the lampshade in that russet-brown light for a while, but after he marked something on the floor about one shaku short of the wall where he had just found the frame’s imprint, the room returned to its former state as milky external light streamed in through the window. Prosecutor Shikura exhaled the breath he had been holding toward the window with a whoosh,

“What on earth have you come up with?” “Well, even my own theory is rather wobbly at its core,” Hōsui said in a whimsical tone, his words lifting at the edges like a spoon skimming broth. As he spoke, Inspector Kumajirō thrust out a slip of paper. “This shatters your erroneous theory.” “There’s no need to go through such agony to construct a fabrication.” “Look.” “Last night, someone beyond imagination had infiltrated this room.” “The moment she put that Western orange in her mouth, Mrs. Dannenberg tried to inform us of it.”

When Hōsui saw the characters written on that scrap of paper, he felt as though his heart had been violently seized. Prosecutor Shikura rather shouted in exasperation.

“Thérèse! This is an automaton, isn’t it?” “That’s right.” “If we link this to those wound sigils, surely no one would dare call it a hallucination,” Inspector Kumajirō murmured in a low, trembling voice. “Actually, it had fallen under the bed—but when I compared it with this memo, I felt my entire body break out in goosebumps.” “The culprit undoubtedly used the automaton.” Hōsui, still brandishing his impulsive sneering cynicism,

“I see—clay figurines and demonology. So the culprit is targeting humanity’s latent criticism.” “But this is an unusually archaic script.” “It’s as if it were Heian-period semi-cursive or Persian calligraphy.” “But have you obtained proof this bears the victim’s own signature?” “Of course,” Inspector Kumajirō shrugged, “that woman Kamiya Nobuko present at your arrival became my definitive authenticator.” “Mrs. Dannenberg’s peculiar habit went like this.” “She’d wedge the pencil’s midsection between her pinky and ring finger, tilt it diagonally, then write by pinching it between thumb and forefinger—so they say.” “Given that peculiarity, her hand seems nigh impossible to forge.” “What’s more, these friction marks align perfectly with the pencil’s broken tip.”

Prosecutor Shikura shuddered violently, "What a ghastly violation of the deceased! Even so, Hōsui—your thoughts?" "Hmm. Must we truly consider the automaton and wound sigils as inseparable?" Hōsui muttered darkly. "Given this room's locked-room nature, I'd prefer declaring it hallucination," Shikura countered. "Yet reality compels me toward tangible explanations. Examining the automaton's mechanisms might illuminate those sigil patterns. After enduring this parade of phantom lights in darkness... Don't we crave even feeble illumination? Let's postpone family interrogations and inspect that automaton first."

Then it was decided they would proceed to the room containing the automaton. When they sent a plainclothes officer to retrieve the key, the detective soon returned in an agitated state.

“It seems the keys are missing—the drug room’s as well.” “If there’s no alternative, we’ll have to break them down,” Hōsui declared with resolve coloring his voice. “But that would mean two rooms to investigate now.” “The drug room too?” This time Prosecutor Shikura spoke in surprise. “Potassium cyanide is something you’d find even in an elementary schooler’s insect-collecting kit.”

Hōsui stood up without hesitation and began walking toward the door,

“That, you see, is the culprit’s intelligence test. In other words, it seems the measure of the plan’s depth lies in what remains within the drug room—the one now missing its keys.”

The room containing the Thérèse automaton was situated behind the grand staircase, separated by one corridor, precisely at the dead end of a cul-de-sac corridor directly behind the "Fubunzu." When Hōsui arrived before the door, he made a suspicious face and began staring at the relief before his eyes. “This door’s relief depicts ‘The Massacre of the Innocents in Bethlehem by King Herod.’” “These two—the one here and the Hunchback Healing Illustration in the room with the corpse—are famous plates from the Gospel of Otto III.” “If that’s the case… could there be some connection here?” Hōsui murmured, tilting his head slightly as he tried pushing the door—but it did not budge an inch.

“There’s no need to hesitate.” “If it’s come to this, we’ll just have to break it down.” As Inspector Kumajirō let out a feral voice, Hōsui abruptly cut him off, “Seeing the relief, I suddenly felt it would be sacrilege.” “Plus, we shouldn’t leave traces through noise, so why don’t we quietly cut through the lower part of the panel?” Before long, after crawling through the square hole that had been opened in the lower part of the door, Hōsui clicked on his flashlight. What the round light revealed was nothing but walls and floor; not a single piece resembling furniture made itself known. But just as he was about to complete a full circuit of the room from the right side, unexpectedly, the darkness tore open on the wall just to Hōsui’s side—to the right of the door. And then, from that rupture surged a ghastly exhalation—and there materialized the profile of Thérèse Signoret. When speaking of the terror evoked by masks, it is an experience common to all. If, for instance, one were to visit the front hall of an ancient shrine even in broad daylight and gaze upon the Noh masks displayed on the latticed gable doors, one would be assaulted by an eerie sensation as if one’s entire body were being stroked against the grain. All the more so because Thérèse herself—the very entity who had exuded this case’s uncanny atmosphere—now emerged halo-like from the gloom of that desolate, soot-stained room. In that instant, it was little wonder that all three men gasped and found their breath stolen. As a faint flash twinkled at the window, illuminating the armored door’s轮廓 in stark relief, a distant rumble of thunder—like the shifting of the earth itself—crawled menacingly closer. In that harrowing atmosphere, Hōsui fixed his gaze intently and began scrutinizing the uncanny humanoid figure before him—Ah, this lifeless automaton in the deathly silent midnight corridor—

The location of the light switch was determined, and the room brightened. The Thérèse automaton was a wax-coated figure approximately 166 to 169 centimeters tall, clad in a bluish-blue skirt with mast-hoop-shaped tiered folds and a jacket of matching color. The impression conveyed by its countenance was not so much endearing as it was a heretical beauty. Crescent-shaped Rubens-esque eyebrows and the so-called overturned-boat mouth—its corners upturned—were forms inherently deemed licentious. Yet on this countenance, the roundedness of the nose harmonized strangely with them, together expressing a maiden’s yearning poised to dissolve into ether. There, encased within an exquisite silhouette with cascading golden curls, lay the precise replica of Thérèse Signoret—the beauty of Château de Tréville. The illuminated side of her face bore a vivid luster so intense one might almost glimpse the blood vessels beneath—a stark contrast to her giantess-like physique. To maintain stability, the form from shoulders downward had been constructed with alarming massiveness, the soles of its feet spanning roughly three times the breadth of an ordinary person’s. Hōsui sustained his analytical gaze without respite,

“It can only be thought of as a haniwa warrior figure or an Iron Maiden—this is said to be Kopecký’s work, but rather than Prague, the lines of its physique are closer to Baden-Baden’s Hanswurst [a German marionette].” “In these simple lines lies a boundless mystery not found in other automatons.” “The fact that Dr. Sanzō didn’t commission a professional doll maker but constructed this as a large marionette—that’s so characteristic of his taste, don’t you think?”

“Let’s save the automaton appreciation for later,” Inspector Kumajirō scowled bitterly, “but more importantly, Hōsui—the lock’s been engaged from the inside.” “Hmm. Isn’t it astonishing? However, there’s no way this automaton moved telekinetically by the criminal’s will.” When he saw the ornamental key inserted in the keyhole, Prosecutor Shikura seemed to shudder, but he began tracing the footprints on the floor starting from his feet. Chaotically intermingled across the floor from the doorway to the opposite window were four tracks—imprinted by large, flat footprints that had made two round trips. Beyond these, only a single trail continued from the doorway to where the automaton now stood. However, what astonished them most was the complete absence of any human footprints. When Prosecutor Shikura let out a shrill exclamation, Hōsui sneered back sarcastically,

“You’re not much help.” “First, the culprit walks matching the automaton’s stride length, then later makes the automaton tread over those same tracks.” “Wouldn’t that let them erase their own footprints?” “And from then on, all entries and exits would involve walking precisely over those imprints.” “But if this automaton’s initial position last night wasn’t at the doorway, we can definitively state it never once left this room after dark.”

“What kind of idiotic evidence is this?” Inspector Kumajirō retorted, voice straining against his irritation. “Where exactly can you prove the sequence of these footprints?” “You see, this is Diluvial subtraction,” Hōsui retorted. “Because if the initial position wasn’t the doorway, we can’t give a consistent explanation for those four footprints. In other words, one of the two tracks heading from the doorway toward the window would end up being the very last to remain. Now, assuming that initially, the automaton was by the window—first, the culprit would exit the room while stepping on their own footprints, and then the automaton would return to its original position. Then next, it would have to walk to the door once more to lock it. But as you can see, since it turns at the door toward its current position, the remaining track becomes entirely superfluous. So, if we assume that one round trip was made to erase the culprit’s footprints, why would they have had to return toward the window once more from there? If they hadn’t placed it by the window, why wouldn’t they have been able to make the automaton lock it?”

“The automaton locked it⁉” Prosecutor Shikura exclaimed in disbelief.

“Who else could’ve done it?” Unbeknownst to himself, Hōsui’s tone grew heated. “But as for the method—it’s hardly an original contrivance. For years on end like clockwork, the culprit employs a string. Now then—shall I put my hypothesis to the test?”

And then, the key was first inserted into the inside of the door. However, whether the success he had achieved ten-odd days prior in Zinaida’s Chamber of St. Alexei Monastery would indeed be repeated this time—that was gravely in doubt. This was because the old-fashioned long-handled key protruded far beyond the knob, making it nearly impossible to replicate the technique used previously. While the two men stood watch, Hōsui had a long thread prepared, threaded it through the keyhole from the outside, first wound it around the left side of the key’s ring shape, then scooped from below to entwine the right side, next hooked it from above onto the base of the ring’s left side, wrapped the excess around the prosecutor’s torso, and let the end pass through the keyhole again to dangle on the corridor side. And then,

“First, let’s assume Prosecutor Shikura here as the automaton and suppose it walked here from the window ledge. However, prior to that, the culprit had to perform precise measurements regarding the automaton’s initial placement position. In any case, they needed to ensure its left foot would stop precisely at the door’s threshold. Because if that left foot stopped there, even when the right foot began moving afterward, it would be obstructed by the threshold midway. Therefore, the residual force from the latter half would cause rotation around that foot as an axis, making the automaton’s left foot gradually retreat backward. And that’s because once it turned completely sideways, it would then proceed parallel to the door.”

Then he had Inspector Kumajirō pull two threads outside the door and made Prosecutor Shikura walk toward the wall-mounted automaton. As they proceeded past the door's front—leaving the key behind them—Hōsui directed Kumajirō to give a sharp tug on that side's thread. Prosecutor Shikura's body pressed against the strained thread, pulling the right side of the ring-shaped key until it began rotating swiftly. The instant the latch fell into place, the thread snapped cleanly near the key. Soon after, Inspector Kumajirō emerged clutching both threads, heaving a sigh steeped in vexation,

“Hōsui, what an enigmatic man you are.”

“However, there’s no definitive proof that the automaton ever left this room.” “Even that superfluous set of footprints—my analysis alone still falls short of explaining it,” Hōsui pressed his final point, then unhooked the clasp at the garment’s back, opened the double doors, and peered into the mechanical apparatus within. It was a mechanism of such exquisite craftsmanship that one might imagine dozens of clocks assembled together. Amid layered stacks of countless gears—some large, others small—there sat a complex multi-tiered steering mechanism operating autonomously. Slender brass rods controlling various joints formed radiant patterns like saintly halos, between which protruded spring-winding spurs and a brake mechanism. Next, Inspector Kumajirō sniffed around every inch of the automaton’s body and began examining it with a magnifying glass for fingerprints or palm prints, yet nothing appeared to capture his interest. Hōsui waited until he finished,

“Anyway, the automaton’s capabilities are strictly limited,” Hōsui declared. “Walking, stopping, waving its hands, grasping and releasing objects—that’s the full extent of its functions.” He snorted derisively. “Even if it had left this room, carving those wound sigils would require delusions bordering on madness.” He voiced what seemed an irrefutable conclusion—“Mrs. Dannenberg’s handwriting must be approaching hallucinatory territory by now”—yet within him lingered an ineradicable doubt that supplanted the fading phantom of the automaton. Hōsui continued,

"But Inspector Kumajirō, why would the culprit have needed to make it appear as though the automaton locked it?" "Perhaps they were trying to layer mystery upon the case with relentless force—or perhaps they wanted to flaunt their own superiority." "But if emphasizing the automaton's mystique was their aim, wouldn't leaving the door wide open and smearing blood orange juice on its fingers have been more effective than these petty contrivances?" "Ah, why did the culprit leave me this memento of threads and automaton mechanics?" He wore an expression of tormented skepticism momentarily before declaring, "In any case, let's set the automaton in motion," his eyes losing their incisive gleam.

Before long, the automaton began to walk at an extremely slow speed, in its characteristically mechanical, clumsy manner. However, with each clunking step it took, a whispering tremolo—lil-lin, lil-lin—resounded like a beautiful murmur. It was unmistakably the vibration of a metal wire; there must have been such a device somewhere within the automaton that resonated through the hollow cavity of its torso. Thus, through Hōsui’s deduction, the delicate mechanics of dismantling the automaton had been narrowed to a razor’s edge—yet this newly heard resonance now seemed precisely what would tip the scales. With this critical discovery concluded, the three departed the automaton’s chamber.

At first, Hōsui’s demeanor suggested they would next investigate the drug storage room downstairs, but he abruptly changed plans and entered the arched corridor lined with antique suits of armor. He then stood by the door opening onto the circular corridor and began fixing his gaze intently forward. On the opposite side of the circular corridor, two astonishingly blasphemous frescoes occupied the wall surfaces. The right one depicted the Annunciation: a Virgin Mary of distinctly anemic countenance stood at the left edge, while Old Testament saints gathered on the right—all covering their eyes with their palms—and between them stood Jehovah, staring fixedly at the Virgin with lustful eyes. The left fresco—which one might call *The Morning After Calvary*—depicted a crucifixion scene with Jesus rendered in meticulous lines showing postmortem rigor mortis at the right edge, toward whom apostles cowered in craven, servile postures as they timidly approached. Hōsui took out a cigarette, then—as if reconsidering—returned it to its case and posed an outlandish question.

“Prosecutor Shikura, do you know Bode’s Law—the one that expresses planetary distances beyond Neptune through a simple multiplicative formula? If you do know it, how would you apply it here in this arched corridor?” “Bode’s Law⁉” The prosecutor retorted, startled by the bizarre question—but encountering yet another of Hōsui’s inexplicable actions, he exchanged a bitter glance with Inspector Kumajirō. “So now you’ll have us critique your wild theories using those two paintings? How about that scathing biblical perspective? That Feuerbach fellow who supposedly likes such paintings—I doubt he was a flowery rhetorician like you.”

However, Hōsui allowed a faint smile to escape at the prosecutor’s words, then exited the arched corridor and returned to the room with the corpse—where an astonishing report awaited. It turned out that Kawanabe Ekisuke, the head butler, had vanished without a trace. Last night, he had been accompanying Mrs. Dannenberg alongside Kuga Chinako, the librarian—and though Inspector Kumajirō had held the deepest suspicions toward him—which was exactly why, upon learning of Ekisuke’s disappearance, he rubbed his hands together with evident satisfaction,

“So, since my interrogation ended at ten-thirty, that means the forensics team went to collect palm prints from then until one o’clock now. Oh right, Hōsui—these are said to be modeled after Ekisuke,” he pointed at the two statues beside the door, “I’d already figured this out, you know.” “What role that hunchbacked dwarf was playing in this case—that’s it.” “But what a damn fool he is.” “That bastard doesn’t even realize his own freak-show traits!”

Hōsui had been watching him with contempt throughout this exchange when he murmured, "Not quite," hinting at dissent with those brief words before moving toward the statue. Standing before the hunchback positioned back-to-back with the Legislator's cross-legged effigy, he observed: "Well now—this hunchback's been cured. A curious coincidence, wouldn't you say? The door relief shows it undergoing treatment by Jesus, yet here inside it appears fully healed." His final declaration—"And that man has likely been rendered mute by now"—came with forceful emphasis, but his expression abruptly stiffened as if struck by sudden chills, nervous tension permeating his posture.

However, the statue remained unchanged—a hunchback with a flat, oversized head, its narrow, downturned eyes brimming with a cunning smile.

Meanwhile, Prosecutor Shikura—who had been writing something—beckoned Hōsui over and showed him a slip of paper on the desk. On it was written Prosecutor Shikura’s questions in the following bulleted list.

1. It is stated that Hōsui became aware a servant had heard a sound on the grand staircase—one that should have been inaudible under normal circumstances. What is your conclusion?

2. What did Hōsui see in the arched corridor? 3. What was the reason Hōsui lit the desk lamp and measured the floor? 4. Why is Hōsui struggling to apply a paradoxical interpretation to the lock of the Thérèse automaton’s room? 5. Why is Hōsui not hastening the interrogation of the family members? After finishing reading, Hōsui smiled faintly, drew lines under items 1, 2, and 5 to mark them as answers, and continued writing: *“If by some one-in-ten-thousand chance fortune favors me, I may yet discover someone who can identify the culprit (second or third incident)”*—thus he noted. When the prosecutor looked up in astonishment, Hōsui added a sixth question with a heading and wrote the following line: “Under what purpose did the armored samurai statues have to leave the base of the staircase?”

“That’s because you’ve already—” Prosecutor Shikura started to retort, eyes wide—but at that moment, the door quietly opened, and Kuga Chinako, the librarian who had been summoned first, entered.

III. Corpse Luminescence Without Cause

Kuga Chinako’s age was thought to be just over fifty—fifty-two or fifty-three—but she was a woman who possessed an elegant demeanor unlike any ever seen before. The exquisitely delicate contours of her face—as though sculpted with a chisel—could only be described as a countenance rarely encountered. When those contours occasionally tightened, the old woman’s unyielding, iron-like will would emerge from them, and from within her reclusive, tranquil shadow, one could almost envision something like flames fiercely rising. Above all else, Hōsui found himself struck by this woman’s spiritual depth and the overwhelming pressure that seemed to emanate from her entire being.

“You must be wondering why there are so few furnishings in this room.” These were the first words Chinako uttered.

“Perhaps it was merely an empty room until now?” Prosecutor Shikura interjected. “It would be more accurate to call it the Sealed Chamber,” Kuga Chinako corrected brusquely, lighting a slender cigarette retrieved from her obi. “In truth, you may already be aware—those unnatural deaths occurred three times consecutively in this very room.” “Thus, following Dr. Sanzō’s suicide as the final incident, it was decided to seal this chamber permanently.” “Only this sculpture and couch are said to have been furnishings here prior to those events.”

“In the Sealed Chamber,” Hōsui wore a complicated expression. “Why was that Sealed Chamber opened last night?” “It was Mrs. Dannenberg’s order.” Beginning with those ominous words shrouded in an eerie chill, Chinako began to recount the bizarre atmosphere that had swelled ominously throughout the mansion.

“Since Dr. Sanzō-sama’s passing, every member of the household has lost their composure.” “Even the four foreign guests—who had never once quarreled before—gradually grew more taciturn, their daily interactions becoming increasingly guarded as wary gestures multiplied between them.” “Then when this month began, everyone all but ceased to leave their rooms—and above all, Mrs. Dannenberg-sama’s condition could only be described as bordering on madness.” “Save for myself or Ekisuke whom she trusted implicitly, she permitted no one—not even for meal deliveries—to approach her.”

“As for the cause of that terror—have you formed any interpretation?” “If it were personal strife, that would be one thing—but those four individuals should have no issue of inheritance.”

“Even if the cause remains unknown, it is certain that those individuals felt their very own lives were in danger.”

“As for the fact that the atmosphere has grown markedly worse since the beginning of this month—” “Well, if I were a Swedenborg or a John Wesley—the founder of the Methodist Church—” Chinako said sarcastically, “One cannot fathom how desperately Mrs. Dannenberg strove to escape from such malice.” “And as a result of that person’s guidance, last night’s Divine Inquisition came to be held.”

“What is the Divine Inquisition?” To Prosecutor Shikura, Kuga Chinako’s all-black Japanese-style attire seemed to exert a physically oppressive presence. “Dr. Sanzō left behind something unnatural.” “It’s one of those Mecklenburg sorceries—they take the wrists of hanged corpses, pickle them in vinegar, then dry them into mummies. On each finger of this Hand of Glory, they set corpse candles made from the fat of executed criminals.” “When lit, they say anyone harboring evil intent will stiffen and lose consciousness.” “The ceremony commenced precisely at nine o’clock last night.” “The attendees were Lord Hatatarō, four others, myself, and Ms. Kamiya Nobuko.” “Though Mrs. Oshigane—Tsutako—had been lodging here for some time, she departed at dawn yesterday.”

“And who did that light pierce?”

“It was none other than Mrs. Dannenberg herself,” Chinako uttered in a low voice, shuddering. “That unearthly light belonged neither to day nor night.” “When it began burning with a wheezing rasp like labored breath, within the spreading flames a bluish-gray horror writhed and flickered menacingly.” “As they were lit one after another, we lost all sense of our surroundings—as if floating weightless through void.” “Yet when all burned...that was the moment of suffocating dread.” “At that instant, Madam Dannenberg glared ahead with monstrous ferocity—what unspeakable cry must have torn from her!” “There could be no doubt—something manifested in her eyes.”

“What was it?” “‘Ah, Sanzō—!’ she screamed.” No sooner had she screamed than she collapsed right there with a thud. “What? Sanzō?!” Hōsui turned ashen for a moment but pressed on. “But that irony is far too theatrical.” “Trying to discover an evil presence among the other six, only to end up struck down herself.” “At any rate, let me try lighting the Hand of Glory once more with my own hands.” “Then what about Dr. Sanzō…?” he coldly declared, reverting to his true self.

“Then do you think those six would return to their own vomit like dogs—?” Chinako retorted scathingly, quoting Peter’s words. And then,

“But that I am not some idle mystic enthusiast—you will gradually come to understand this.” “By the way, she soon regained consciousness—her face drained of all color and streaming with waterfall-like sweat—for it had finally arrived.” “Ah, tonight is surely—!” she uttered in a trembling voice, her body convulsing in despair. “And then she ordered Ekisuke and me to accompany her and have her moved to this chamber.” “It had to be a room unknown to anyone—I could clearly perceive her desperate resolve to evade whatever horrific thing approached.” “This occurred around ten o’clock, and indeed, before that very night ended, her terror came to dreadful fruition.”

"But what could have made her scream 'Sanzō'?" Hōsui reiterated his doubt before continuing. "In fact, a note that Mrs. Dannenberg wrote 'Thérèse' in her death throes was found beneath the bed. So perhaps some physiological condition inducing hallucinations or mental aberration... By the way, have you ever read Vulpen?"

At that moment, a strange gleam appeared in Chinako’s eyes. “Indeed, the theory of degeneration at fifty could certainly be considered one possibility in this case.” “Moreover, there are epileptic seizures that aren’t discernible from appearance.” “However, at that time, she was as precise as if in full command of her faculties,” Chinako declared firmly, “and then she retired to bed until around eleven o’clock. Upon waking, she stated that her throat was parched, so Ekisuke brought that fruit platter from the hall.” As she spoke, noticing Inspector Kumajirō’s eyes darting sharply—

“Ah, you remain ever the pedant, don’t you? I suppose you want to ask whether that blood orange was present at that time. But human memory isn’t so conveniently at your disposal, I’m afraid. First of all, while I don’t believe I slept at all last night, there is something within me that whispers I may have at least dozed off.”

“Indeed, this too falls into the same category.” “Everyone in the mansion, to a man, claims they slept unusually soundly last night,” Hōsui said with a wry smile. “Now, regarding eleven o’clock—I hear someone came then?” “Ah, Lord Hatatarō and Ms. Nobuko came to check on her condition.” “However, Madam Dannenberg stated that she would have the fruit later and wanted something to drink, so Ekisuke brought lemonade.” “Then, with prudence, Madam ordered that it be tested for poison.”

“Hah! That’s a terrifying nerve,” Hōsui remarked. “Then who did it?” “It was Ms. Nobuko,” Chinako answered. “Madam Dannenberg seemed reassured upon seeing this and even had her cup changed three times. After Madam appeared to retire for the night, Lord Hatatarō removed the portrait of Thérèse from the bedroom wall and returned with Ms. Nobuko. You must understand—Thérèse is viewed as an ill-omened specter in this mansion, and since Madam Dannenberg particularly detested her, Lord Hatatarō’s considerate act of noticing this could only be described as most prudent.”

“But since there’s nowhere that could be called a hiding place in the bedroom, that portrait likely has no connection to the automaton,” Prosecutor Shikura interjected from the side. “More importantly—what of the leftover drink?” “It’s already been washed away, I suppose.” “But if you ask such questions, Hermann—the 19th-century toxicologist—would scoff at you.” Chinako openly displayed a look of mockery. “If that isn’t sufficient, shall I inquire about the name of the neutralizing agent that would nullify the cyanide?” “With sugar or plaster, you can’t very well drink a tannin-precipitated basic substance along with tea.” “Then, when it struck twelve, Madam Dannenberg had the door locked, placed the key beneath her pillow, ordered fruit, and took that blood orange.” “When she took the blood orange, she said nothing at all. After that, there was no sound—as if she had fallen into a deep sleep—so we placed a sofa behind the screen and lay down upon it.”

“Then, was there a faint bell-like sound around that time?” When met with Chinako’s denial, Prosecutor Shikura tossed aside his tobacco and muttered.

“So with no portrait here, Madam must have seen a hallucination of Thérèse after all. Once it becomes a perfect locked room, a glaring contradiction with the crest would arise.”

“That’s right, Prosecutor Shikura,” Hōsui said quietly. “I’ve discovered an even more delicate contradiction.” “What we assembled earlier in the automaton’s chamber—when brought back to this room—suddenly reversed itself.” “Though this room is called the unopened chamber, in truth, there had been someone constantly coming and going here for a long time.” “There remain clear traces of this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Inspector Kumajirō barked, his voice sharp with exasperation. “The keyhole was crusted over with decades of rust—when they first tried to turn the key, it wouldn’t even catch, or so they claim.” “And unlike that flimsy setup in the automaton’s chamber, this deadbolt runs on a rock-solid spring mechanism. No damn way you’re tripping that with strings. As for hidden floor panels—we already swept every inch with echo detectors. Zilch.”

“That’s why you laughed when I said earlier that the hunchback was being treated.” “Why would nature ever leave traces where human eyes might catch them?” Hōsui led everyone to the statue and continued. “Generally, a hunchback from childhood would have upper ribs unevenly formed into rosary bead-like protrusions—but where do you see such a thing on this statue? But just try brushing away this thick layer of dust—see for yourselves.”

And then came the moment when the layer of dust cascaded down like an avalanche. Choking and covering their noses and mouths, yet with widened eyes, the group unmistakably recognized it upon the statue’s first rib. “Then there must be something that flattened the protruding dust on the rosary beads evenly. But no matter how precise an instrument one might use, such a thing could never be achieved by human hands. Nature’s meticulous carving. Just as wind and water carve giant statues into rock over tens of thousands of years, within the three years this statue had been confined here, something had healed its hunchback. The person who had been constantly sneaking into this room always placed a hand candle on the stand here. However, even if they managed to conceal those traces, from that moment on, a speaking symbol began to be formed. The subtle movements arising from the flickering flame caused the dust on the rosary beads in the most unstable position to fall away bit by bit. Hey, Shikura—if you listen closely, doesn’t it sound like there’s a beautiful chiseling noise, almost like the rhythmic chirping of a cricket? At times, a poem by Verlaine like this…”

“I see,” Prosecutor Shikura hastily interjected, “but you can’t seriously claim that those two years prove anything about last night alone.” At once, Hōsui turned to Kumajirō and said, “You probably didn’t check under the Coptic fabric, did you?” “What on earth could be under there?” Kumajirō widened his eyes and exclaimed. “However, what we call dead spots aren’t limited to the retina or acoustics alone.” “Freeman had been sifting a special shell powder through the gaps in the weave,” Hōsui said quietly as he rolled up the fabric. On the floor beneath—though invisible from directly above—faintly peculiar marks began to emerge as the number of inlaid wheel patterns increased. What remained on the alternating stripes of colored marble and hazenoki wood was unmistakably a watermark. The entirety formed a koban-shaped mass about two shaku in length—a hazy lump at first glance—yet upon closer inspection, its periphery was encircled by countless dots, within which clustered lines and points of varied shapes. And then, these formed footprint-like shapes alternately directed toward the drapery, gradually fading as they progressed.

“It seems restoring the original form is rather difficult, isn’t it? Even Thérèse’s feet aren’t this large,” Inspector Kumajirō muttered, utterly bewildered. “In short, we need only examine the negative image,” Hōsui declared nonchalantly. “The Coptic fabric isn’t tightly adhered to the floor, and the hazenoki wood contains a high amount of palmitic acid, making it water-repellent. Water that seeps from the surface to the underside drips down through the cilia. If what lies beneath is hazewood, the water forms droplets and splatters away.” And due to that reaction, as the cilia gradually shifted their positions, after dripping several times, they eventually moved from the hazewood to the marble. “Therefore, by tracing backward from the line farthest from the center on the marble and connecting the points where it meets the hazewood, what you obtain becomes nearly equivalent to the original line—that’s how it works. In other words, using water droplets as the keys of a harpsichord, the hairs performed a rondo dance.”

“I see,” Prosecutor Shikura nodded, “but what exactly is this water?”

“But last night, there wasn’t a single drop…” As Chinako spoke, Hōsui chuckled in amusement at her words, “No, that’s Lord Kino Haseo’s old legend.” “The demon’s daughter turned into water and vanished, they say.” However, Hōsui’s jest was by no means idle talk confined to the moment. When Inspector Kumajirō compared the reconstructed prototype with the automaton Thérèse’s footprints and stride length, an astonishing correspondence emerged there. The existence of the automaton—which had flickered strangely through repeated conjectures, treading upon water of unfathomable form—could now be nothing but an irrefutable fact. And thus, between the ironclad door and that beautiful tremulous resonance, an even greater contradiction was laid bare.

Thus, amid thick tobacco smoke and a relentless stream of mysteries—compounded by the already tense atmosphere—Prosecutor Shikura appeared to have become quite flushed. After throwing open a window and returning, Hōsui gazed at the drifting white smoke before sitting back down.

“By the way, Ms. Kuga—though we need not discuss the three past incidents at this juncture—why is this room filled with such symbolic elements? Isn’t that Lawgiver statue over there a clear suggestion of a labyrinth? That was indeed discovered by Mariette at the entrance of a labyrinth in a burial ground, you see.”

“That labyrinth likely foreshadows events yet to unfold,” Chinako said quietly. “The last one standing will probably be killed too.”

Hōsui stared at her face in surprise for a moment, but—

"No—at least three incidents..." he parroted Kuga's words with a delirious cadence before continuing, "Then Ms. Kuga, you remain intoxicated by last night's Divine Inquisition memory, do you not?"

“That is merely one testimony.” “I had already foreseen the occurrence of this incident.” “Shall I attempt to guess?” “The corpse should probably be enveloped in immaculate radiance.”

For Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō—who had been left dumbfounded by the duo’s bizarre questions and answers—this revelation struck like a bolt from the blue. How did this old woman alone know of that miracle which no one should have been aware of?

Chinako continued to speak. But this was a sword-like interrogation directed at Hōsui. “By the way, are you aware of any examples of corpses emitting radiance?” “Bishop Water, Aletheo, Maximus of the Dialectics, Saint Rachel of Aragon… I believe there have been about four such cases. However, those are ultimately nothing more than the wicked deeds of miracle sellers,” Hōsui retorted coldly.

“In that case, you don’t have an interpretation thorough enough to clarify things, do you? And what about the December 1872 Pastor Corpse Luminescence Incident in Inverness, Scotland?” (Note: West District Asylum Medical Journal). Pastor Wolcott, accompanied by his wife Abigail and friend Steven, visited the glacial lake Catherine near Steven’s brick factory. However, Steven vanished on the third day. The following year on January 11, Pastor Wolcott and his wife ventured onto the lake under moonlight but never returned that night. Around midnight, four or five villagers discovered the pastor’s corpse glowing with distant radiance upon the lake after moonset in the rain, yet they waited in fear until dawn. The pastor was murdered—the fatal wound being a gunshot entering the cranial cavity from the left side—though no firearm was discovered. The corpse lay within a depression in the ice surface, and though no subsequent radiance occurred, the wife vanished that very night, ultimately losing all trace alongside Steven.

Hōsui responded to Chinako’s derision with a slightly sharpened tone. “I interpret it this way—the pastor committed suicide after killing the other two.” “Now, to explain this in order: first, the pastor killed Steven and placed his corpse inside a high-temperature brick kiln that was out of operation to accelerate decomposition.” “Then, during that time, he crafted a lightweight boat-shaped coffin perforated with countless small holes, placed the corpse inside after thoroughly confirming its decomposition, attached a weight with a long cord, and sank it to the bottom of the lake.” “Naturally, within a matter of days, as putrefactive gases distend the abdomen, one must assume the boat-shaped coffin would rise to the surface.” Thereupon, Pastor Wolcott calculated the location from the position of the weight that night, broke through the ice, pierced the abdomen of the corpse through the small holes in the coffin floating on the water’s surface to release the gas, and ignited it. “As you know, decomposition gas contains a large amount of low-heat combustible matter similar to marsh gas. Its phosphorescence erased the shadows formed by moonlight around the hole’s edge, causing his sliding wife to plunge into it.” In the water, she likely struggled desperately to push aside the boat-shaped coffin above her head, but in the end, exhausted of strength, the wife sank deep into the lake bed. “And so, after Pastor Wolcott dropped the pistol—with which he had shot his own temple—onto the coffin and collapsed upon it himself, it’s hardly surprising that the villagers mistook his phosphorescence-shrouded corpse for divine radiance.” As the gas diminished and the boat-shaped coffin lost its buoyancy, it sank onto the corpse of Abigail—lying at the lake’s bottom with the pistol still resting upon it. Meanwhile, the pastor’s body remained on the ice, his limbs propped up by the ice walls, until eventually, under the rain, the water surface became completely covered with ice. “The motive was likely his wife’s affair with Steven, but using his lover’s corpse to plug that hole—what a diabolical act of revenge!” “However, Mrs. Dannenberg’s case is not some disorderly eyewitness phenomenon.”

When she finished listening, Chinako displayed a faint look of astonishment, yet without any change in her complexion, she retrieved from her pocket a folded, scroll-shaped sheet of high-quality paper.

“Please look at this.” “This drawing by Dr. Sanzō represents the evil spirit haunting Kuroshikan.” “The radiance was not emitted without cause.” On its folded right side was depicted an Egyptian ship, while on the left side, within each of six compartments, Dr. Sanzō himself stood adorned with a square halo, gazing at an uncanny corpse lying nearby. Beneath these were inscribed six names from Gretchen Dannenberg down to Ekisuke, while the reverse side bore a chapter containing dreadful murder prophecies: (See diagram)

Gretchen shall be killed while radiating with radiance.

Ottokar shall be hanged and killed.

Galibarda shall be inverted and killed.

Olga shall be killed with her eyes covered.

Hatatarō shall be killed while floating in midair.

Ekisuke shall be crushed and killed. “This is truly a terrifying Apocalyptic Diagram,” Hōsui remarked, his voice trembling. “The square halo was indeed a symbol of the survivors, was it not? And that boat-shaped object would be the mysterious ship of the dead that ancient Egyptians envisioned in their afterlife.” As he spoke, Chinako nodded with a grave expression. “That is correct. It floats in Lotus Lake without a single sailor aboard—when the deceased board it, the various nautical mechanisms begin moving autonomously according to the will they command. Now, in what sense would you interpret the relationship between these square halos and the deceased before us? That is to say, Dr. Sanzō continues living eternally within this mansion. And that self-moving ship of the dead guided by his will—that is none other than the Thérèse automaton.”

Part II: Faust’s Incantation

1. Undinus sich winden (Water Spirit, Writhe!)

The six-paneled Apocalyptic Diagram presented by Kuga Chinako harbored brutally cruel contents yet was rendered through archaic lines of utmost whimsy in its outward form. Yet within this case, it undeniably formed the very foundation underlying all elements. Had they erred in their critical dissection at this juncture, this formidable barrier would have persisted even after thousands of degrees of interrogation and scrutiny. And it stood evident that this would arrest all progress at that very point. Thus even as Chinako appended her startling interpretation, Hōsui remained chin-to-chest in sleep-like posture—steeped in silent contemplation—though his inner torment likely surpassed anything within his experience. Indeed here was a murder case utterly devoid of perpetrator—the diagrammatic method correlating Egyptian barge with Corpse Diagram defied all denial. Yet against expectation, vitality soon surged across his countenance as he lifted his gaze forward—a ferocious expression rising to the surface.

“I understand… but Ms. Kuga, this diagram’s principles contain none of that Swedenborgian theology.” (In *The Interpretation of the Apocalypse* and *Arcana Coelestia*, Swedenborg employed egregiously forced numerological readings of the literal texts of Exodus and the Book of Revelation, rendering those two scriptures as having prophesied numerous historical cataclysms in later ages.) “What appears mad is rather an orderly logical structure.” “Moreover, the geometric theory of spatial structure that governs all phenomena also functions here as an absolute and immutable unit.” “Therefore, if we can symmetrize this diagram with the laws of the cosmic natural world, there must naturally be something abstracted from it,” declared Hōsui, plunging into a transcendent realm of deductive reasoning—one might call it uncharted territory—which left even the prosecutor speechless. “Though mathematical logic is hailed as the guiding principle of all laws, even in the ‘Bishop Murder Case,’ the Riemann-Christoffel tensor merely represented a criminal concept. Yet Hōsui seeks to apply this to actual crime analysis, venturing into the desolate realm of abstract thought…”

“Ah, I…” Chinako sneered, her emotions laid bare. “And that reminded me of that foolish science student who, after attending a lecture on Lorentz contraction, went and drew straight lines all warped. Then, could you analytically express Minkowski’s four-dimensional world with the addition of a fourth volume—a void within three-dimensional space where only spiritual matter can permeate?” Hōsui flicked away that sneer with a glance from the corner of his eye and, after first silencing Chinako, continued, “Now, if we were to speak of the most resplendent page in the history of cosmological structural inference, it would undoubtedly be that hypothetical duel—the debate between Einstein and de Sitter concerning spatial curvature. At that time, de Sitter insisted it was due to the inherent geometric properties of space while simultaneously refuting Einstein’s anti-solar theory. However, Ms. Kuga—when you contrast those two, the central current of the Apocalyptic Diagram emerges here,” he declared with words that seemed almost mad, then began to explain by sketching the next diagram.

“Now, starting with the anti-solar system theory first, Einstein posits that light rays emitted from the sun orbit the edge of the spherical universe and return to their original point. And for that reason, when they first reach the cosmic boundary, they create the initial image there; then, after continuing their millions-year journey around the outer circumference, upon arriving at the opposing point behind, they form a second image. However, by that time, the sun would have already died out, reduced to nothing more than a dark star. In other words, the entity symmetrical to that image no longer exists in the realm of living celestial bodies. What do you think, Ms. Kuga? Though the entity has perished, a past image appears—doesn’t this causal relationship precisely mirror that between Dr. Sanzō and the six victims in our case? To be sure, one measures an ångström—one ten-millionth of a millimeter—and the other spans a million trillion ri. Yet even this contrast amounts to nothing more than a minuscule line segment within cosmic space. Then de Sitter revised his theory thus: as distance increases, spiral nebulae’s spectral lines shift redward, leading him to infer that light’s vibration period slows accordingly. Consequently, upon reaching the universe’s extremity, light speed becomes zero and progression ceases entirely. Therefore, only one image appears at the cosmic periphery—an image likely identical to its original entity. Thus we found ourselves compelled to choose between these two theories when determining the Apocalyptic Diagram’s principle.”

“Ah, this is precisely the sort of talk that drives men mad!” Inspector Kumajirō muttered, scratching flakes of dandruff from his scalp. “Well then—shall we coax him down from his celestial lotus dais?”

Hōsui couldn’t suppress a wry smile at Kumajirō’s jest but then stated his conclusion. “Of course, we must leave solar metaphysics behind and apply de Sitter’s theory to human physiology.” “Thus, even after traversing the universe’s radius over vast eons, the entity and its image do not differ—what could that principle signify within human physiology?” “For example, suppose there exists a pathological latent entity here that, from its genesis until life’s end, neither grows nor decays but perpetually maintains an unchanging form…”

“So you’re saying…” “That’s the idiosyncrasy,” Hōsui declared triumphantly. “There may well be things like myocardial hypertrophy or even fusion of the sagittal suture of the dura mater within it.” “But the fact that it can be symmetrically abstracted means that even within human physiology, the laws of nature are circulating.” “In fact, the Humoral Constitution School is attempting to introduce physiological phenomena into the realm of thermodynamics.” “Therefore, attributing mysterious powers to Dr. Sanzō—who is nothing more than an inorganic entity—or imagining telepathic capabilities in the automaton are ultimately nothing but the culprit’s cunning diversionary tactics.” “In all likelihood, even the ship of the dead in this diagram holds no meaning beyond the progression of time.”

Idiosyncrasy—. Captivated solely by the dazzling sparks of their debate, Inspector Kumajirō—who had never even dreamed that beneath lay such a ghastly-hued flint—was nervously wiping the sweat from his palms.

“Ah, that explains it… So he included Ekisuke along with the family members.” “That’s right, Kumajirō,” Hōsui nodded contentedly. “Therefore, the enigma lies not in the essence of the diagram itself, but rather in the will of its creator. However, no matter how you look at it, this medical fantasy can hardly be considered a fragmentary, well-intentioned warning.” “But isn’t this an exceedingly whimsical form?” Prosecutor Shikura objected. “With that, even the blatant hints have been rendered utterly playful. I don’t see a single trace of an atmosphere that fosters crime,” he protested, but Hōsui methodically laid out his theory.

“Certainly, whimsy and metaphor are undoubtedly a form of physiological cleansing,” he conceded. “However, for those without emotional outlets, it becomes an unparalleled danger.” “Generally speaking,” he continued, “humans confined to a single worldview—when fixated on an object of interest—become monomaniacally obsessed, seeking reactions through inverted means.” “That perverse psychology—” he leaned forward, “should it ever reflect this diagram’s essence? Observation would instantly twist beyond recognition.” “The focus shifts from style to personal experience.” “In other words—comedy becomes tragedy.” “Then begins a mad pursuit of natural selection’s traces,” his voice dropped, “until only a cold-blooded hunter’s mentality remains.” “So you see,” he concluded with grim levity, “though I’m no Thorndike—I find thunderclaps and moonless nights far more dreadful than malaria or yellow fever.”

“Well, criminal symptomatology…” Chinako sneered, displaying her usual brand of icy cynicism.

“I had always thought such things were only necessary for momentary intuition.” “Now regarding Ekisuke—he’s practically family.” “Unlike myself with merely seven years here, though nominally a servant, he was raised under Dr. Sanzō’s care from childhood through his current forty-four years.” “Moreover, this diagram was naturally absent from any index—I can state unequivocally it never saw human eyes.” “After Dr. Sanzō’s death, it lay buried beneath untouched mountains of dusty, disordered books—so thoroughly concealed that even I remained ignorant until last winter’s end.” “Thus if we accept your theory of this Apocalyptic Diagram inspiring the crimes, then calculating—no—*deducting* the culprit’s identity becomes no trivial arithmetic.”

This mysterious old woman suddenly adopted an inexplicably forthright manner. Hōsui appeared momentarily flustered but quickly regained his usual nonchalant air, “So, how many infinity symbols should we append to that calculation, I wonder?” he said, then uttered a startling remark. “However, I think even the culprit probably didn’t require this diagram alone.” “Don’t you know about the other half?”

“The other half… Who would believe such delusions?!” Chinako cried out in a hysterical voice, finally laying bare Hōsui’s hypersensitive nerves. What flowed from the creases of Hōsui’s intuitive reasoning—whether his interpretation of the Apocalyptic Diagram or other deductions—had already surpassed the sensory limits of human comprehension. “If you remain unaware, I shall enlighten you.” “You likely dismiss this as mere whimsy, but in truth, this diagram constitutes but one divided half-leaf.” “Beyond its six geometric representations lies a profound esoteric intent.”

Inspector Kumajirō, astonished, was folding and aligning the diagram’s edges in various ways when he interjected, “Hōsui, enough with your jests. It has a broad blade-like shape, but the lines are extremely precise. Where exactly are the traces of it having been cut afterward?” “No, there’s nothing like that,” Hōsui replied dismissively, gesturing toward the Apocalyptic Diagram’s omega-shaped entirety. “This form constitutes a kind of symbolic language. By nature, the secret revelations of the dead are profoundly insidious—their very methods contorted beyond reason. As you observe here, the entire diagram resembles a knife blade—a steatite weapon from the Stone Age. Yet this diagonally severed portion at its right shoulder harbors truly esoteric significance. Of course, this would only concern us if Dr. Sanzō possessed archaeological expertise—but coincidentally, an identical form exists among pre-pyramid hieroglyphs from the Narmer-Menes dynasty. First and foremost—why do you suppose the Doctor constrained himself to such a cramped and unnatural configuration? Ponder that.”

And then, in the margin of the Apocalyptic Diagram, he drew the Ω shape in pencil. “Kumajirō, if this ½ represents an ancient Egyptian fractional numeral,” he concluded tersely, “then my conjectures may not be complete delusions after all.” Turning to Chinako, he added: “Of course, I can’t rule out that these allegorical forms from a dead language might someday require correction.” “Nevertheless,” he continued, “until that day comes, I intend to avoid deducing the culprit directly from this diagram.”

During that time, Chinako gazed listlessly into space, yet her eyes blazed with an intense fervor to pursue the truth. In contrast to Hōsui’s crystalline realm of beautiful thought, she relentlessly amassed weighty elements laden with imposing shadows, striving to elucidate empirical depths.

“Originality is hardly ordinary, I see,” she murmured as if to herself, then reverted to her usual cold expression and looked at Hōsui. “Therefore, it stands to reason that reality lacks the splendor of illusion.” “But rather than those Ham tribe funeral monuments—what would you do if someone actually witnessed that square halo and ship of the dead?” “If it were you, I would tell Shikura and have you prosecuted,” Hōsui replied calmly.

“No, it was Ekisuke.” Chinako calmly replied. “About fifteen minutes before Mrs. Dannenberg ate the blood orange, Ekisuke left the room for roughly ten minutes around that time.” “That’s what emerged when we questioned him later.” “The Divine Inquisition had been underway at that moment. As Ekisuke stood on the stone pavement of the back entrance, something suddenly caught his eye on the second floor’s central area.” “He said it was at the bay window adjacent to where the Divine Inquisition was being held—there, a pitch-black figure moved eerily, as if someone were present.” “Then came a faint sound—like something being dropped on the ground—that he claimed became unbearably intriguing, compelling him to investigate.” “Yet what Ekisuke found was merely glass fragments scattered all over the place.”

“Then, did you inquire about the route Ekisuke took to reach that location?” “No,” Chinako shook her head, “and Ms. Nobuko was so quick to bring water from the adjoining room the moment Mrs. Dannenberg collapsed—not a single other person left their seat.” “If I tell you this much, you should understand why I harbor such an absurd obsession with this Apocalyptic Diagram.” “Of course, that shadowy figure was not among the six of us. Yet, the servants are outside the suspect’s sphere.” “Therefore, the fact that nothing at all remains in this case is perfectly reasonable, I must say.”

Chinako’s testimony summoned a sinister wind once more. Hōsui gazed for a while at the crimson tip of his cigarette, then curled a mischievous smile.

“Admittedly, even a blunder-prone professor like Nicol managed something clever here,” Hōsui remarked. “He claimed tuberculosis blood contains elements that induce cerebral delirium—” “Must you always…!” Chinako began with an exasperated cry, then stiffened her composure. “Then examine this. If this paper fragment had fallen on the glass, Ekisuke’s testimony might hold water.” She produced from her pocket a stationery scrap soiled by rain and mud, bearing German text in black ink: Undinus sich winden

Undinus sich winden “With this, there’s simply no way to analyze the handwriting.” “These crablike Gothic letters…” Hōsui muttered in apparent disappointment, but even as he spoke, his eyes lit up. “Ah—there’s an intriguing inversion here.” “Originally, this phrase meant ‘Water spirit, twist…’ But here they’ve taken the feminine *Undine* and appended *us* to render it masculine.” “Do you know what work this is quoted from?” “Then again—within this mansion’s library—might we find Grimm’s *On Ancient German Poetic Masterpieces* or Faist’s *German Language Historical Documents Collection*...”

“Regrettably, I do not know that.” “As for the linguistics aspect, I shall inform you of that later,” Chinako replied with unexpected frankness, waiting for Hōsui’s lips to yield an interpretation of the passage. Yet he kept his eyes lowered to the paper scrap, showing no inclination to speak. Inspector Kumajirō seized that silence and said:

“In any case, Ekisuke going to that location holds far graver implications.” “Come now—spit it all out without holding anything back.” “That man’s already shown his true colors.” “Well, if we’re speaking of other pertinent facts,” Chinako continued with undiminished sarcasm, “it would be that I remained alone in this chamber throughout.” “Though if suspicion must fall regardless, better to be accused first… No—in most cases, such matters prove baseless in the end.” “Moreover, while Ms. Nobuko and Mrs. Dannenberg quarreled some two hours before the Divine Inquisition commenced, all such trifles remain irrelevant to the case’s core.” “First and foremost, Ekisuke’s disappearance parallels that earlier Lorentz contraction analogy.” “This perverse mentality—reminiscent of some laboratory rat—was forged through your coercive interrogations.”

“Does it really come to that?” Hōsui muttered listlessly, raising his face, yet an oppressive shadow lingered about him—as if he were privately harboring the possibility of some impending event. But to Chinako, he spoke in a courteous tone. “In any case, I am grateful that you have gathered such a variety of materials. However, when it comes to the conclusion, it is utterly regrettable. Even your splendid deductive methods ultimately strike me as nothing more than presenting a mere semblance of plausibility. Therefore, even if an automaton were to appear before my eyes, I would regard it as nothing but a hallucination. First of all, such a non-biological locus of force—I cannot comprehend it.”

“You will gradually come to understand,” Chinako declared in a tone that pressed her final point. “In truth, within Dr. Sanzō’s diary—specifically the entry from March 10th of last year, the month before his suicide—there is the following passage.” “I sought the hidden power that must be concealed and, having obtained it, on this day burned the grimoire—so it reads.” “Having said that, while his remains—now reduced to inorganic matter—hold no value to look at, I cannot help but feel that something akin to a mysterious biological mechanism, one capable of organically moving inorganic matter, lies hidden within this building.”

“That is why I burned the grimoire,” Hōsui intimated, “but what was destroyed can only be restored.” “Once that’s done, I shall then examine your mathematical philosophy.” “Now, concerning the current financial arrangements and the circumstances of Dr. Sanzō’s suicide at that time—” Having finally turned from the Apocalyptic Diagram issue to his next question, Chinako rose to her feet while keeping her piercing gaze fixed on Hōsui.

“No, that would be more suited to the butler, Mr. Tagō.” “After all, he was the one who made that discovery at the time—and more importantly, in this mansion he may well be called Richelieu.” Then she took two or three steps toward the door before stopping and turning resolutely to face Hōsui.

“Mr. Hōsui—even taking what is given demands a noble spirit.” “Therefore, for those who forget it, a time of regret will surely come in due course.” As Chinako’s figure vanished beyond the door, the room—now emptied of its earlier contention—felt like a vacuum left after an electrical discharge, hollow and void. A musty silence began to seep back in, bringing with it a stillness so profound that even the cawing of crows in the grove and the faint sound of icicles falling could be heard. Before long, the prosecutor tapped the back of his neck,

“Kuga Chinako chases only concrete reality, while you drown in the world of abstraction.” “But wait—” “The former seeks to negate the laws of nature, while the latter attempts to codify them systematically within the realm of empirical science—” “Hōsui, what manner of reasoning is required for this conclusion?” “I think it’s demonology, but…” “But Shikura, that is the flower of my reverie—connected to that Apocalyptic Diagram, there exists a half-page no one has yet seen—that’s what it is,” Hōsui uttered in a dreamlike tone, his delivery almost devoid of emotion. “I believe its contents likely connect to all the mysteries of this case, beginning with Sanzō’s burning of the grimoire.”

“What? Even the figure Ekisuke saw…?” Prosecutor Shikura exclaimed in astonishment. Inspector Kumajirō nodded solemnly. “Hmm—that woman wouldn’t lie. But the question is how much truth Ekisuke actually conveyed.” “Yet what a peculiar woman,” he added with unconcealed amazement. “She’s deliberately edging into the criminal’s territory.” “Or perhaps she’s being manipulated,” Hōsui remarked, tilting sideways in his chair with an air of nonchalance that made the swivel creak. “After all, they say remorse holds an indescribable allure.” “Take Nakke of Sévigora—a nun who chose secular life over apostasy after enduring the Inquisition’s torments,” he continued, pivoting sharply back to face them.

“Of course, Kuga Chinako possesses unparalleled erudition.” “But she’s like a human index.” “Her congealed memories are merely arranged with precision, like the grid of a shogi board.” “That’s right—truly unmatched precision.” “Therefore, there’s not a damn shred of originality or potential for development.” “First of all—how could a woman who lacks any sensitivity to such literature possibly cultivate the imagination needed to devise an extraordinary crime?”

“What on earth does literature have to do with this murder case?” Prosecutor Shikura demanded.

“Now coil, O water spirit—” Hōsui adopted the manner of one elucidating the problematic phrase for the first time. “That line comes from the incantation chanted by that omnipotent doctor in Goethe’s *Faust* to break the magic of Mephistopheles transformed into a mastiff—specifically from the Chaldean pentagram sorcery that dominated that era, invoking the four elemental demons: fire spirit, water spirit, wind spirit, and earth spirit.” “But doesn’t it strike you as odd that Chinako fails to recognize this?” “In such antiquated houses, the bookshelves invariably feature Voltaire for speculative philosophy and Goethe for literature.” “Yet such classical works don’t spark even a flicker of interest in that woman.” “Moreover—that phrase harbors an unnerving declaration of intent.”

“That is…”

“Firstly, this indicates serial murder.” “The killer already declared their intent by rearranging the armor displays, but this clue is far more concrete.” “The number of victims and their methods are explicitly laid out.” “Now, once you grasp how many elemental spirits appear in Faust’s incantation, it’ll strike you like a blow to the chest.” “Because if one among them—Hatatarō and the four foreigners—is guilty, then logically four must die.” “And this connects to the murder method through my earlier mention of **the water spirit**.” “Surely you haven’t forgotten those uncanny water stains that emerged beneath the rug after forming the automaton’s footprints?”

“But it’s certain that the criminal lies within the circle of those who know German—moreover, this phrase isn’t particularly philological,” Prosecutor Shikura said. “Don’t be ridiculous. ‘Music is Germany’s art’—so they say,” Hōsui retorted with a look of genuine surprise. “Even that woman Nobuko plays the harp in this mansion. And with such an utterly baffling gender transformation involved, ultimately I believe nothing but the linguistics collection can dissect that incantation.”

Inspector Kumajirō slackened his folded arms and let out a sigh unbefitting of him. “Ah—isn’t every last thing about this just derisive?” “Yes, truly—the criminal transcends our imagination.” “Truly, he is a Zarathustran Übermensch.” “This mysterious case cannot be explained by conventional pre-Hilbertian logic.” “One example is those water traces—but if interpreted through a banal method of residues, you’d conclude the water disabled the vocal mechanism inside the automaton.” “But the facts are never so.” “Moreover, the entirety is structured in an exceedingly multifaceted manner—.” “There are no clues at all.” Within an ambiguous haze, eerie mysteries teemed and swarmed. Moreover, from the subterranean world where the dead lie buried, paper-like debris ceaselessly came whistling and striking. However, within it, one could discern that four elements were contained. The first was the eerie visage of the natural world depicted in the Apocalyptic Diagram; the second was the world of the dead, centered around the still-unknown half-page. Then, the third was the three past unnatural death incidents. “And finally, the fourth is the criminal’s real-world actions seeking to unfold around Faust’s incantation,” Hōsui paused briefly here, but soon his somber tone brightened. “Right—Shikura, I’d like you to prepare a memorandum for this case.” “After all, wasn’t the Green Murder Case like that?” “When Vance prepares a memorandum toward the end, even such a notoriously difficult case has been miraculously solved at the same time.” “But that is by no means the author’s desperate contrivance.” “Van Dine teaches us just how critical a problem determining factors can be.” “So.”

“Above all else, that is the most urgent task at hand. Factors—for now, our task lies in extracting several of them from this murky tangle of questions.”

Then, while Prosecutor Shikura was preparing the memorandum, Hōsui left the room for about fifteen minutes, but soon returned, closely followed by a plainclothes officer. The detective reported that despite having searched every corner of the mansion, the discovery of Ekisuke had ultimately proved futile. Hōsui twitched the area around his eyebrows as he—

“Well then, have you investigated the ancient clock room and the arcade?” “However, as for that place—” The plainclothes officer shook his head. “The butler locked it at eight last night. But the key hasn’t been lost.” “As for the arcade, only one door on the left side of the circular corridor was open.” “Hmm, I see,” Hōsui nodded once. “Then let’s have you wrap this up.” “He has absolutely not left this building—no way he has,” Hōsui uttered in a tone that seemed to contradict itself, as if making two conflicting observations. Inspector Kumajirō stared in astonishment,

“Don’t be ridiculous. You might want to bind this case in garish covers, but let’s face it—the only answer lies in Ekisuke’s testimony,” he said, anticipating the imminent discovery of the hunchbacked dwarf that would likely come from outside the mansion. Thus, Ekisuke’s disappearance was at last confirmed just as Kumajirō had anticipated, but next, Hōsui ordered an investigation of the area where the aforementioned glass fragments were said to be found, and further commanded that the butler, Tango Shinsai, be summoned as the next witness.

“Hōsui, did you go to the arcade again?” After the plainclothes officer left, Inspector Kumajirō asked in a tone laced with mockery.

“No—I verified the geometric quantity of this case.” “When Dr. Sanzō drew the Apocalyptic Diagram and hinted at its unknown half-page, there must have been some directional logic to it,” Hōsui answered sullenly, but then a startling fact escaped his lips. “So—the dreadful undercurrent that drove Mrs. Dannenberg to madness has been uncovered.” “In truth, I investigated with the village office by telephone—wouldn’t you know, those four foreigners were naturalized on March 4th last year and registered into the Furuyatsuki family as Dr. Sanzō’s adopted children.” “Moreover, the inheritance formalities remain incomplete.” “In other words, this mansion still hasn’t passed into the hands of the legitimate heir, Hatatarō.”

“Well, this is astonishing!” Prosecutor Shikura threw down his pen and sat speechless, but immediately ran his fingers through his hair and said, “The delay in procedures is likely due to Dr. Sanzō’s will, but in any case, only two months remain before the statutory deadline.” “Once that deadline passes, the inheritance will fall into the national treasury.” “That’s correct.” “Therefore, if there’s a murder motive to be found there, you can see it in Dr. Faust’s disguise—that pentagram circle.” “However, though it makes no difference from one angle, after all, there’s something as inconceivable as the naturalization of four people involved.” “Its depth is no ordinary matter.” “No—on the contrary, I hold something that must not be rashly accepted.”

“What exactly?” “It’s items (1), (2), and (5) from your earlier questions. The armored warrior leapt up to the staircase corridor—the servant is listening to inaudible sounds—and in the arcade, Bode’s Law still fails to account for Neptune alone.” Spouting this astonishing assertion, Hōsui took up the memorandum Prosecutor Shikura had finished writing. Within it lay only an accurately described sequence of events, untainted by personal interpretation.

1. Questions Regarding Corpse Phenomena (omitted)

2. Regarding Evidence Traces That the Thérèse Automaton Could Leave at the Crime Scene (omitted)

3. Movements and Circumstances on the Day Prior to the Incident's Occurrence

1. Early morning: Oshigane Tsutako’s departure from the detached house. 2. From 7:00 PM to 8:00 PM— The positions of the armored warriors were moved to the staircase corridor, and two helmets of the Japanese-style armor were replaced. 3. Around 7:00 PM, it was reported that the late Dr. Sanzō’s secretary, Kamiya Nobuko, had engaged in an argument with Mrs. Dannenberg.

4. 9:00 PM— During the Divine Inquisition, Dannenberg collapsed, and around that same time, Ekisuke reportedly witnessed an anomalous human figure on the protruding veranda of the adjacent room. 5. 11:00 PM— Nobuko and Hatatarō visited Dannenberg. At that time, Hatatarō removed the framed portrait of Thérèse from the wall, and Nobuko sampled the lemonade for poison. Furthermore, although Ekisuke brought the fruit dish presumed to hold the cyanide-injected blood orange at that time, the crucial blood orange itself was never conclusively proven.

6. Around 11:45 PM. Ekisuke, having seen what was dropped by the earlier figure, went to the rear garden window and picked up glass fragments along with a scrap of paper bearing a chapter from *Faust*. During that time, only the victim and Chinako were present in the room.

7. Around midnight of the same day. The victim consumed the Western orange.

As for the four family members other than Chinako, Ekisuke, and Nobuko, there were no noteworthy activities to describe.

4. Regarding Past Suspicious Death Incidents at Kuroshikan (omitted)

5. Movements and Trends Over the Past Year

1. March 4th of last year: Four foreign nationals were naturalized and entered the family register. 1. Same [Year], March 10th: Dr. Sanzō left an enigmatic entry in his daily log and reportedly burned a book of spells that day. 1. Same [Year], April 26th: Dr. Sanzō’s suicide.

Since then, the family within the mansion had cowered in fear, and at last, the victim sought to determine the one at its root through the Divine Inquisition. 6. Examination of the Apocalyptic Diagram (omitted)

7. Location of Motive (omitted)

When he finished reading, Hōsui said.

“I believe that among this enumeration, all questions regarding the first corpse phenomenon are fully addressed within the third item.” “On the surface, it’s just a seemingly ordinary sequence of times.” “However, even if we consider only the path by which that Western orange found its way into the victim’s mouth, I’m certain it’s packed as densely as a Finslerian geometric formula.” “Moreover, I believe it’s worth noting that Dr. Sanzō’s suicide occurred immediately after the naturalization and family registry entry of those four individuals and the book burning.”

“No, your profound analysis doesn’t matter at all,” Inspector Kumajirō snapped. “What’s more important is the glaring contradiction between motives and suspects’ actions.” “Nobuko was arguing with Mrs. Dannenberg, and Ekisuke’s conduct is as you well know.” “And as for Chinako—there’s no telling what she might have done while Ekisuke was out of the room.” “Yet this ‘Dr. Faust’s circle’ you keep mentioning unerringly points to the remaining four.”

“So, am I alone within the safe zone, I wonder?”

At that moment, an uncanny rasping voice erupted from behind.

When the three turned around in surprise, there stood Tagō Shinsai, the butler, who had slipped in unnoticed and now gazed down at them with a grandiose smile. Yet it was only natural that Shinsai could materialize soundlessly behind them like a gust of wind. This elderly historian with paralyzed lower limbs sat astride a hand-operated four-wheeled cart gliding on smooth rubber wheels of the sort used by convalescing soldiers. Shinsai was a moderately renowned medieval historian—known both as the mansion’s steward and for publishing several academic works—though now he was an old man approaching seventy. His beardless face burned ochre-red beneath grotesquely protruding cheekbones and jawline, while sunken nostrils hollowed his visage into something beyond mere ugliness—a transcendent barbaric-Buddhist countenance plucked from Taoist-Buddhist scrolls or the ranks of the Twelve Divine Generals: an utterly alien physiognomy. Crowned with an Indian hat, his entire being could be encapsulated in one word: grotesquely-unique. Yet where Chinako exuded contemplative depth, he radiated only carapace-like obstinacy—an impression of unyielding rigidity devoid of complexity. The cart itself boasted small front wheels and rear ones absurdly large like primitive bicycle wheels, operated through starter and brake mechanisms.

“By the way, regarding the distribution of the estate…” When Kumajirō brusquely interjected without so much as acknowledging Shinsai’s greeting, Shinsai sneered with insolent disdain. “Oh? So you’re aware of the four naturalizations. It is indeed a fact—but you would do better to ask each individual personally. As for me, I have absolutely no connection to such matters…”

“However, it has already been opened, hasn’t it? At least the contents of the will—you should just talk about them.”

Inspector Kumajirō had indeed laid a veteran interrogator’s verbal snare, yet Shinsai displayed not the faintest trace of perturbation,

"What, the will… Hoh, this is the first I’ve heard of it," he deflected lightly, and from the very outset, a murderously tense silent battle commenced between him and Kumajirō. The moment Hōsui first glanced at Shinsai, he appeared to sink into some profound contemplation before finally fixing him with a sharply focused gaze. “Ha ha, you’re paraplegic.” “Indeed, not everything in Kuroshikan is confined to the realm of internal medicine.” “By the way, I hear you were the one who discovered Dr. Sanzō’s death. You must also know who the culprit is, I presume.”

At this, not only Shinsai but also Prosecutor Shikura and Kumajirō were all rendered speechless at once. Shinsai propped up both elbows like a toad, leaned halfway forward, and let out a bellowing voice. “Ridiculous! To dismiss it as a suicide when it’s already been decided…” “Have you perused the autopsy report?”

“That’s precisely why,” Hōsui pressed. “You must already know even the method of murder. To begin with—why would the orbital radii of the solar system’s inner planets have killed that elderly physician?”

2. Regarding the Hymn of the Bell-Ringing Device...

“Inner planetary orbital radii⁉” Stunned by this utterly outlandish statement, Shinsai momentarily lost all means of response. Hōsui continued in a solemn tone. “That’s correct.” “As a historian, you must be familiar with the Baldas Creed that dominated medieval Wales.” “What was the creed of that grimoire derived from Druide—the ninth-century Regensburg bishop-magician? (The universe is permeated with all symbols.” “And so, these mystical laws and the arcane principles of their arrangement inform people of hidden phenomena—or foretell them in advance.)”

“However, that—”

“In other words, I refer to the principle of analysis and synthesis.” “It was only through understanding the precise method by which a certain abhorrent individual murdered Dr. Sanzō that I first comprehended the arcane depths of astrology and alchemy.” “If I recall correctly, Dr. Sanzō lay collapsed at the room’s center—feet oriented toward the door—clutching a bundle of daggers thrust into his heart. Was that not the case?” “Yet if one draws Mercury’s and Venus’ orbital radii with the entrance door as their center,” Hōsui continued while sketching dual semicircles resembling an astrological diagram on the room’s layout, “every trace of homicide within that zone vanishes.”

“However, before proceeding, you must first understand that planetary symbols correspond to specific chemical elements.” “You know Venus represents both the planet and copper.” “Mercury denotes both the celestial body and quicksilver.” “Yet ancient mirrors were made by coating thin bronze plates with mercury.” “Thus on that mirrored surface—corresponding here to Venus’s rear quadrant—the culprit’s face approaching behind the drapery would inevitably be reflected.” “For reducing Venus’s orbital radius to Mercury’s position constituted not merely an ingenious murder method, but simultaneously mapped both the crime’s trajectory and the movements of Dr. Sanzō and his killer.” “Gradually, the perpetrator compressed this configuration toward the central solar position.” “The sun marked where Dr. Sanzō met his demise.” “Now—when quicksilver intersected that solar locus—what do you suppose occurred?”

Ah, using the metaphor of reduced inner planetary orbital radii—what was Hōsui attempting to articulate? Neither Prosecutor Shikura nor Inspector Kumajirō could have anticipated that within Hōsui’s deductions—a zenith of modern scientific rigor—the shadowed realm of alchemists would materialize alongside early chemistry’s principle of sympathetic magic. “Incidentally, Mr. Tagō—what might this single letter ‘S’ signify?” Hōsui pressed relentlessly. “Primarily the sun, followed by sulfur.” “Yet mercury combined with sulfur yields vermilion, does it not?” “Vermilion embodies both solar radiance and sanguine hue.” “Therefore, Dr. Sanzō’s heart ruptured precisely at the door’s threshold.”

“What? At the edge of the door…” “This is preposterous drivel!” Shinsai roared like a madman, slamming the armrest. “You’re hallucinating! This completely inverts reality! The blood only pooled around where Dr. Sanzō had collapsed.” “Because the culprit temporarily reduced the radius and immediately restored it,” Hōsui countered. “Now look at the letter S again. There’s more. Devil’s Convocation Day...the Lawgiver...Yes, precisely the Lawgiver. The culprit mirrors that statue—” He closed his lips mid-sentence, staring fixedly at Shinsai as if measuring the interval until his next words. Then, abruptly seizing the moment—

“A person who cannot stand or walk—like that—is the culprit,” Hōsui declared in a sharp voice. Strangely, at the same moment—an inexplicable abnormality befell Shinsai.

In an instant, an impulse surged through his upper body—his eyes flew wide, his mouth gaped into a trumpet-like shape—transforming him into a ghastly visage akin to Munch’s screaming figure. He continued writhing in agony as if perpetually struggling to swallow his own saliva—until finally, “Oh, look upon this body of mine! How could a cripple like this…” he managed to force out in a hoarse voice. However, it seemed something abnormal had indeed occurred in Shinsai’s throat, for even afterward he continued to suffer from labored breathing, and violent convulsions accompanied by bizarre stuttering appeared. Hōsui continued speaking with abnormal detachment as he observed this spectacle, yet his demeanor still bore that measuring quality—he seemed to be meticulously regulating the pace of his words.

“No, it was precisely by exploiting that infirmity that you were able to commit murder.” “I am not looking at your body, but rather at that hand-operated wheelchair and rug alone.” “You are likely aware of the account where Benvenuto Cellini—a great metalworker and astonishing murderer of the Renaissance period—slew Palmieri of the Caldana family, Lombardy’s foremost swordsman. Though inferior in swordsmanship, Cellini first loosened the rug, then midway snapped it taut, stabbing Palmieri as he lost his footing and staggered.” “However, to fell Sanzō, the Renaissance swordsmanship that utilized that rug was by no means a mere fantastical tale.” “In other words, the expansion and contraction of the inner planetary orbital radii were nothing more than those of the rug you manipulated.” “Now then, shall I explain the actual details of the crime?” Hōsui said, turning a reproachful gaze toward Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō. “Why is it that even when looking at the door’s relief carving, you failed to notice that the hunchback’s eyes were sunken?”

“I see—it’s sunken in an elliptical shape,” Kumajirō immediately stood up and went to inspect the door, and indeed, it was just as Hōsui had said. Hōsui, upon hearing this, directed a knowing smile at Shinsai, “Now, Mr. Tagō—doesn’t that sunken position align precisely with Dr. Sanzō’s heart area? Since it’s elliptical in shape, it’s immediately apparent that this is the hilt of the amuletic daggers. In that case, there was no possible motive for suicide other than enjoying his natural lifespan—and given that on that very day, he had intended to lose himself in memories of his youth while embracing his lover’s automaton—why was he found pressed against the door with his heart pierced?”

Shinsai could not even utter a sound, continuing to exhibit the same symptoms as his vitality teetered on the brink of complete depletion. From his wax-white face dripped greasy sweat—a wretchedness utterly unbearable to behold. However, despite this, Hōsui made no attempt whatsoever to cease this cruel pursuit. “By the way, there is a strange paradox here,” he continued. “That murder would be impossible for a person with a fully intact body. Because it required the nearly silent mechanical force of a hand-operated wheelchair—first creating waves in the rug to fold and layer it until finally causing Dr. Sanzō to collide with the door. After all, given that the room was shrouded in near darkness at the time—unaware that you were concealed behind the curtain on the right—Dr. Sanzō pushed aside the left curtain, saw the automaton placed on the bed by a servant, and then turned toward the door to secure the lock. However, following that, your criminal act began.” “First,” Hōsui pressed on, “prior to that—securing the far end of the rug with tacks and removing the amuletic dagger from the automaton’s garments. Then, once Dr. Sanzō finally turned his back, you lifted the edge of the rug and applied force with the footrest to its vertical section to generate momentum. Thus, wrinkles formed in the rug, and of course those waves gradually increased in height.” “And then,” he leaned forward slightly, “from behind, you rammed the footrest into the back of Dr. Sanzō’s knee. The waves were crushed from the side, reaching a height almost up to his armpit. At the same time, the so-called Jendrassik reflex occurred—the impact applied to that area transmitted to his brachial muscles, inducing a reflex movement. Thus, Dr. Sanzō naturally raised both arms horizontally without conscious thought.” Hōsui’s voice grew colder as he reconstructed the act: “Then, holding Dr. Sanzō from both sides from behind, you lightly thrust the amulet dagger in your right hand into his heart and immediately released your grip. As Dr. Sanzō reflexively tried to grab the dagger, your two hands switched places in that split second—and this time, he ended up clutching the hilt himself.” “An instant later,” he concluded with clinical precision, “he collided with the door, and the blade whose hilt he himself gripped pierced his heart.” “In other words,” Hōsui resumed his lecturing tone, “you needed both the speed to catch up to the elderly Dr. Sanzō—who walked slowly—while creating waves in the rug without making a sound, and that mechanical propulsive force.” “Then,” he added pointedly, “to make him grasp the hilt, you had to keep both arms free—which required first stimulating the back of his knee to induce the Jendrassik reflex.” “This hand-operated wheelchair possesses all these elements,” he gestured toward Shinsai’s mobility device, “and the crime was carried out at a terrifying speed that left no time to even cry out—all in an instant.” His final words fell like a guillotine blade: “Therefore, without exploiting your infirmity, no one could have ended Dr. Sanzō’s life while leaving behind evidence of suicide.”

“Then, what’s the purpose of the waves in the rug?” Inspector Kumajirō interjected from the side. “That’s precisely due to expanding and contracting inner planetary orbital radii,” Hōsui replied coldly. “First you compressed it to a singular point—then aligned Dr. Sanzō’s neck with the wave’s crest before stretching the rug back to its original state.” His fingers traced an arc through cigarette smoke. “Thus his corpse—still clutching that hilt—was dragged to the room’s center.” A sardonic chuckle escaped him as he continued: “Naturally no traces remained—the chamber wasn’t locked when empty anyway—and rigor mortis couldn’t sustain such grip strength.” He crushed his cigarette against an ashtray shaped like Mephistopheles’ claw. “But coroners lack sensitivity to secrets’ peculiar allure—they wouldn’t recognize occult mechanics if it bit their sterile gloves.”

At that moment, a desolate bell chime playing an archaic sutra hymn reverberated through the air, shaking the gloomy atmosphere of this murder-laden chamber. Hōsui had earlier seen the swinging bells with clappers in the spire but had not noticed the presence of a carillon (a keyboard-operated instrument that strikes bells of different tones, functioning like a piano). However, he was just becoming captivated by that bizarre contrast.

Shinsai, who had been lying prostrate over the armrest until then, through desperate effort—though on the verge of complete collapse—managed to squeeze out a faint voice.

“Lies… Dr. Sanzō did indeed die in the center of the room…” “However, for the sake of this glorious clan… I feared public scrutiny and removed something from the scene…” “What was it?” “It was Thérèse’s automaton—the specter of Kuroshikan… Having been positioned beneath the corpse as if borne upon its back from behind… because its palms were pressed atop Dr. Sanzō’s right hand, which gripped the dagger… Thus, due to the minimal bleeding through the garments… I ordered Ekisuke…”

Although Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō no longer displayed looks of petrified astonishment, they felt the presence of a mysterious force—one that should not exist in the world of the living—growing more tangible with each phenomenon. However, Hōsui coldly declared.

“I have no choice but to stop here.” “Nor can I proceed any further myself.” “Dr. Sanzō’s corpse has already turned to inorganic sludge, and your confession alone remains as grounds for prosecution.” It was the moment Hōsui concluded these words. Just as the sutra hymn’s chimes faded, an unanticipatedly exquisite string tone began vibrating their eardrums. Beyond several distant walls, the four string instruments swelled into a solemn tutti passage before subsiding—at times, the first violin murmured Samaria’s peace like a whispering stream. Hearing this, Kumajirō barked irritably:

“What the hell is that? Even though one of their own family members was killed...”

“Today is the memorial observance day for Claude Digsby, the architect of this mansion…” Shinsai answered under labored breath. “The mansion’s chronicle includes remembrances of Digsby—who cast himself into the sea during his return voyage.” “Ah—a voiceless requiem,” Hōsui murmured rapturously. “It bears an uncanny resemblance to John Stainer’s style.” “Shikura, I never imagined this case would grant me an audience with that quartet’s performance.” “Now then—let us adjourn to the chapel.”

After ordering the plainclothes officer to tend to Shinsai and having them leave the room,

“Why did you slacken your pursuit at the final step?” Inspector Kumajirō immediately challenged, but unexpectedly, Hōsui burst into laughter,

"So, you're actually taking that seriously?" Though Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō recognized they'd been mocked in that moment, they found themselves unable to accept such flawlessly constructed logic at face value. Hōsui wore an expression barely containing his mirth as he went on.

“To tell the truth, that was my least favorite sort of coercive interrogation,” Hōsui coldly declared. “The moment I saw Shinsai, I had an intuition—so I improvised that line of questioning on the spot—but my true purpose lay elsewhere.” He paused, his sardonic smile sharpening. “I simply wished to establish psychological dominance over him—nothing more. To crack this case, we must first shatter that ossified shell of his.”

“So, the indentation on the door…” “It’s two times two equals five, you see.” “That lays bare this door’s treacherous nature.” “And at the same time, it proves the water traces.”

It was truly a dumbfounding reversal. As if Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō had been struck over the head with a resounding blow, leaving them dumbfounded, Hōsui promptly began explaining to the two men. “The door opens with water. In other words, to open this door without a key, water was an indispensable necessity. Now, let me explain what first led to that analogy.” There existed an antique volume titled *Dr. John Dee’s Demonology*, authored by Lord Malmesbury. Within its pages were recorded the myriad of arcane techniques devised by that sorcerer-scholar Dr. John Dee—among them lay an account of a concealed door mechanism that had astounded Lord Malmesbury, which taught me to open doors with water. Of course, it was a form of faith healing: first, Dee would have the malaria patient and their attendant enter a room, give the key to the attendant, and have them lock the door. When they opened the door about an hour later, despite the lock being engaged, it would slide open smoothly—as if it possessed a will of its own. Thereupon Dee concluded—the semi-caprine demon has fled—. However, there had indeed been a goat-like stench near the door, so the patient would be spiritually cured. “Now, Inspector Kumajirō, within that goat stench lay Dee’s trickery, you see. You’re probably aware—as with the Lamprecht hygrometer—that hair doesn’t merely expand and contract with humidity, but that the degree of change is proportional to its length. Try applying that principle of expansion and contraction to the latch’s subtle movements.” As they knew, latches used in spring mechanisms were said to be originally unique to half-timbered houses—an early 18th-century British architectural style where roughly hewn timber was affixed over plaster walls in a regular grid pattern—but they generally consisted of a flat brass rod pivoting freely at one end, structured such that the rod’s vertical movement caused the angular body near the fulcrum to tilt along its two adjacent edges. They likely understood that as one approached the fulcrum, the internal angle of tilting diminished—a rather elementary principle. “Let us assume someone tied a string to a point near the fulcrum of the latch,” Hōsui continued, “stretched it taut so that it would lie horizontal if tilted, and placed a weight—bound with a bundle of hair—just grazing the centerline of that string. Then you pour hot water into the keyhole. Naturally, the humidity increases, causing the hair to expand—the weight comes to bear down on the string—and of course, the string curves into a bow shape. Therefore, that force acts upon the latch’s smallest internal angle, causing the fallen object to rise.”

“So, in Dee’s case, I think that was probably goat urine.” “Also, in this door, the back side of the hunchback’s eye was likely the hollow required for that mechanism—its thin portion must have developed a depression from frequent cycles of drying and wetting.” “In other words, Sanzō created that device, and we must presume the culprit is someone who’d been using it to come and go for years.” “Well then, Shikura—does this clarify why the criminal left those threads and automaton mechanisms in the doll chamber earlier?” “Had we kept scrutinizing only external contrivances, this case would’ve remained forever sealed behind a single door.” “Moreover, doesn’t it feel like the Witchgus curse’s miasma grows thicker from this point onward?”

“So, that would mean the automaton stepped on the spilled water at that time, wouldn’t it?” Prosecutor Shikura said in a strained voice.

“Now all that remains is that bell-like sound. With this, we may safely conclude the automaton accompanying the culprit has been definitively established. Yet each time your nerves spark, the result manifests contrary to your intentions. What in blazes does that signify?”

“Hmm, I can’t quite make sense of it either,” Prosecutor Shikura admitted. “It feels like I’m walking through a pitfall.” As he spoke, even Hōsui began showing signs of disarray. “I suspect that very point connects both aspects,” Hōsui countered. “What do you make of Shinsai’s current confusion?” “That must never be overlooked!” Inspector Kumajirō interjected forcefully. “But you see,” Hōsui continued with a wry smile, “my coercive interrogation—strange as it sounds—incorporates a form of physiological torture. It was this element that first yielded such remarkable results.” His tone shifted to scholarly detachment. “Consider Philireus—that eminent Arian sect monk from the second century—who posited: ‘When reiki* (*breath) escapes with exhalation, strike the void it leaves.’ He further advised: ‘For metaphors, choose utterly disconnected concepts.’” “Words of pure genius,” Hōsui mused before resuming his clinical cadence. “Thus my linkage of inner planetary orbital radii to millimicron-precise murder stems from wanting to obscure common factors. You’ve read Eddington’s *Space, Time and Gravitation*—doesn’t its mathematics dissolve all symmetry upon scrutiny? Even Binet’s mid-era psychophysiology notes pulmonary equilibrium during full inhalation.” He leaned forward intently. “During interrogation, I synchronized impassioned rhetoric precisely with inhalation attempts—while simultaneously targeting what I hypothesized to be posterior cricoarytenoid spasms.” “Mühlmann classifies this in *The Cause of Old Age* as impulsive psychosomatics accompanying muscular ossification,” he added. “Elderly subjects losing respiratory control mid-inspiration exhibit precisely Shinsai’s ghastly symptoms.” “Hence,” Hōsui concluded, lighting a cigarette, “I exploited both psychological and organic vulnerabilities—rare dual vectors requiring specialized methodology.” His eyes narrowed behind smoke tendrils. “Ultimately, my error-laden theories aimed not for coherence but cognitive disruption... and psychological emasculation.”

“Because I must pry open that oyster shell—there’s something I absolutely must hear.” “In other words, my stratagems are merely the premise for a single act, you understand.”

“What an astonishing Machiavelli! “But why would you say that?” Prosecutor Shikura pressed eagerly. Hōsui smiled faintly. “It’s no joke—you’re the one who did it.” “Did you forget the questions (1), (2), and (5) you asked me earlier?” “Moreover, that Rishuryū-like powerholder is trying to prevent those unclean officials from peering into the heart of Kuroshikan.” “So, when that man wakes from the sedative injection—that may very well be when this case is resolved.”

Hōsui, as ever, merely hinted at something nebulous. Then, after pouring hot water into the keyhole and preparing for the experiment, he proceeded to the chapel downstairs where the performance platform stood.

When crossing the hall, the sound of music loomed from beyond the large door adorned with cross and shield-shaped relief carvings. In front of the door stood a single servant. When Hōsui opened it slightly, he encountered a chilly yet vast space where a serene and expansive air wavered forlornly. It was a mysterious charm that only things of ponderous solemnity could possess. Inside the chapel, fine particles of brownish vapor hung thickly in the air, and within that haze-like darkness, a weak, tranquil light drifted in a dull, dreamlike form. The light came from the altar candles; before the large triangular candlestick, frankincense smoldered, and its smoke and light ascended along small columns that stood like rockets, reaching all the way to the edge of the dome high overhead where they converged in a fan-like pattern. The sound of music reflected from pillar to pillar, welling up into an eerie harmony; it felt as though a group of bishop deacons in resplendent golden vestments were about to emerge from the row of arches at any moment. Yet, to Hōsui, this atmosphere could only be perceived as an accusatory eeriness.

Before the altar stood a semicircular performance dais where four musicians—dressed in the black and white robes of the Dominican Order—sat immersed in trance-like ecstasy. At the far right was Ottokar Levez, the cellist who resembled nothing so much as an ungainly boulder, his cheeks puffed out as if craving a crescent-shaped beard. A small gourd-shaped head sat atop his disproportionately large frame. He radiated an air of unshakable optimism, and his cello appeared no larger than a guitar. Next came the violist Madam Olga Krivov, her features—high brow ridges, sharply slit eyes, and a slender hooked nose—forming an undeniably severe countenance. Her skill was said to surpass even that of the great soloist Curtis, and indeed, her performance demeanor revealed an arrogant intensity coupled with an oddly pretentious exaggeration. In stark contrast stood the next musician, Madam Galibarda Serena, whose appearance formed a perfect antithesis to her predecessor. Her skin held a waxy translucence, while her face—small in outline and composed entirely of soft, gentle curves—bore a neat compactness. Her somewhat dark, wide-set eyes lacked any penetrating sharpness. Overall, this woman seemed to conceal a humble nature beneath her melancholy air. These three were estimated to be forty-four or forty-five years of age. Lastly came Furuyatsuki Hatatarō on first violin, who had only just turned seventeen. To Hōsui, he appeared the most beautiful youth in all Japan. Yet this beauty was merely the indolent allure of an actor—no trace of intellectual depth or mathematical precision could be found in any line or shadow of his features. This absence stemmed from his complete lack of markers denoting wisdom and his failure to inherit the dignified forehead so evident in the Doctor's photograph.

Though Hōsui had managed to attend this mysterious ensemble's performance—one he never thought he’d hear—he was not merely lost in rapture. This was because, as the piece reached its final section, he noticed two violins had been fitted with mutes. Consequently, only the bass strings resonated with heightened pressure, creating a sensation so bizarre it felt less like a solemn finale concluding in heavenly glory and more akin to terror-stricken groans and lamentations echoing from hell itself. Before the final note sounded, Hōsui closed the door and questioned the servant beside him.

“Are you always standing watch like this?” “No, today is the first time,” replied the servant with a look of bewilderment—yet he somehow seemed to grasp the reason for it. Then, as the three walked leisurely along, Hōsui broke the silence,

“Truly, that door is the gate of hell,” he muttered. “So—is that hell inside or outside the door?” Prosecutor Shikura pressed. Hōsui drew a deep breath before replying with an exaggeratedly theatrical gesture. “It’s outside.” “Those four are utterly terrified.” “If their fear isn’t mere performance, it aligns perfectly with my deductions.”

The performance of the Requiem ended when they had finished ascending the stairs. And for a while, nothing could be heard. Then, when the three opened the partition door and emerged into the corridor passing before the scene’s room—that was when it happened. Once again, the Bell Ringer began to ring, and this time commenced playing Lassus’s hymn (Psalm 91 of David). *Terrors by night* *By day, the arrow that flies.* *In the gloom stalks pestilence.* *At noonday, the devastating scourge strikes.*

*But thou shalt not fear* Hōsui recited it in a low voice, walking at a pace matching the hymn’s funeral procession-like tempo. However, the tones weakened with each repeated verse, and as they did, a shadow of gloom deepened across his face. At the third repetition, the verse *In the gloom stalks pestilence* was almost inaudible. But when it came to the next verse—*At noonday, the devastating scourge strikes*—strangely enough, though the timbre remained unchanged, an overtone was produced. And thus, the final verse was never heard.

“I see—your experiment was a success,” said Prosecutor Shikura, his eyes widening as he opened the locked door. But Hōsui alone remained leaning against the wall before him, gazing vacantly into space. Then, at last, he spoke in a faint, murmuring voice.

“Prosecutor Shikura, we must go to the arcade. In that armor over there—Ekisuke has surely been killed.”

The two men involuntarily jumped up upon hearing that. Ah, how could Hōsui have deduced the corpse’s location from the Bell Ringer’s tones⁉

III. Ekisuke shall be crushed to death.

However, Hōsui did not proceed directly to the arcade right before him. Instead, he detoured through the circular corridor and came to stand beneath the bell tower stairs adjoining the chapel’s dome. Then, he gathered all staff members at that location and, starting there first, set up lookouts from the rooftop to the turrets on the wall enclosure while having them keep watch on the bell tower beneath the spire. And so, precisely at 2:30 PM—a mere five minutes after the Bell Ringer had fallen silent—they had established an impenetrable encirclement. All of it was executed with such swiftness and focus—so much so that one might have thought the case was on the verge of conclusion—that it all unfolded under a tension thick with impending resolution. But of course, unless one were to split open Hōsui’s brain and peer inside, it went without saying that predicting what schemes he might be devising was utterly impossible.

Now, dear readers, you must have noticed how Hōsui’s words and actions transcended all expectations. Whether or not that proved accurate, it was a leap verging on the very limits of human capability. No sooner had he heard the Bell Ringer’s tones and imagined Ekisuke’s corpse in the arcade than his next move manifested—already targeting the bell tower. However, when one compares those obscure and tangled elements with his past words and actions, a faint thread of coherence can be discovered there. This referred to that grand paradox—the content of his initial responses to Prosecutor Shikura’s itemized questionnaire—which, even after subjecting steward Tagō Shinsai to cruel physiological torture, he had still sought to compel him to divulge at a later time. Of course, that covariant-like causal relationship had immediately resonated with the other two. And it seemed that the astonishing content would likely be elucidated on this occasion without even awaiting Shinsai’s testimony. But Hōsui’s demeanor after issuing his instructions was once again unexpected. His complexion darkened once more, and a shadow of skeptical confusion began to flit across it. Then, as they walked toward the arcade, his unexpected cry of dismay startled the two men.

“Ah, I’ve completely lost my bearings,” Hōsui lamented. “If Ekisuke was killed while the culprit remains in the bell tower, all that precise evidence becomes utterly meaningless. To be frank, I had envisioned someone beyond our current suspects—but now they’ve materialized in this preposterous location. Surely this isn’t a separate murder...” “Then what was the point of dragging us around like puppets?” Prosecutor Shikura barked, his face contorted with rage. “First you declare Ekisuke was murdered in the arcade. Then you pivot without warning to stake out that damned bell tower instead. There’s no logic here—just capricious theatrics!”

“There’s no need to be so surprised,” Hōsui retorted with a twisted smile. “That is the hymn of the Bell Ringer. I don’t know who the performer was, but the sound gradually weakened, and the final verse was never played. Moreover, in the last audible section—the part beginning with *At noonday...*—it strangely produced an overtone (a scale one octave above, with C-D-E-F and the final C as the root note). Now, Prosecutor Shikura, I don’t think this can be considered a general rule.”

“Then let’s hear your assessment for now,” Inspector Kumajirō interjected, and an unnatural gleam appeared in Hōsui’s eyes.

“That is precisely the nightmare,” he began in a fanatical tone that gradually settled into calmness. “Isn’t it a terrifying mystery? How could this be a problem solved through prosaic understanding? Now, assuming Ekisuke is already deceased—though the irrefutable fact will become clear in mere seconds—this leaves us with a negative value in the total count of household members. Initially, there were four family members, but even if they departed the chapel immediately after concluding their performance, insufficient time exists for them to have reached the bell tower afterward. Furthermore, Shinsai can be unequivocally excluded on all counts.” His voice sharpened as he continued, “Thus, we’re left with Nobuko and Kuga Chinako—yet considering how the Bell Ringer’s tones didn’t cease abruptly but gradually diminished, the notion of both women simultaneously occupying the bell tower strikes me as wholly untenable. Undoubtedly, some abnormality befell the performer, yet at that critical moment, the hymn’s final audible verse faintly produced an overtone.” His eyes hardened with forensic certainty. “Needless to say, overtones are theoretically impossible for the Bell Ringer.”

“Then, Inspector Kumajirō, in this case there must be—in addition to a single human performer in the bell tower—another being of metamorphic nature capable of miraculous performance.” “Ah, how did that thing end up appearing in the bell tower?” “Then why didn’t you check the bell tower first?” Inspector Kumajirō pressed sharply. Hōsui’s voice trembled faintly as he...

“The truth is, I sensed a trap in that overtone.” “It felt like a subtle self-exposure—even transmitting that sensation solely to my nerves made me suspect some scheme at play.” “I can’t fathom why the first culprit needed to rush the crime so urgently.” “Moreover, Inspector Kumajirō, while we’re fumbling about in the bell tower, the four downstairs remain utterly defenseless.” “In a vast mansion like this, every corner teems with vulnerabilities.” “There’s simply no way to secure it all.” “So while we can’t undo past events, I resolved to prevent new victims at all costs.” “In short—I’ve prepared countermeasures for both notions plaguing me.”

“Hmm, another ghost?” Prosecutor Shikura muttered through clenched teeth. “Everything exceeds all bounds of reason—teetering on madness.” “It’s as if the culprit were the wind itself—slipping past us each time to mock our efforts.” “Tell me, Hōsui—what are we to do with this supernatural farce?” “Ah—doesn’t it all seem to be coalescing around Chinako’s theories?”

Despite not yet having made contact with reality, all circumstances were unmistakably converging toward a single point.

Before long, the opened entrance to the arcade appeared before their eyes, but one of the doors leading to the circular gallery at the far end seemed to have been locked unnoticed, leaving the interior nearly pitch-dark. In that chill, cutting air, a faint scent of blood began to waft. Yet it was no more than four hours since the investigation began. Still, even as Hōsui and his team continued groping through the darkness, during that interval the culprit had executed clandestine movements and already perpetrated a second crime.

Hōsui immediately opened the door to the circular corridor, let in light, then began surveying the row of hanging suits of armor lined up on the left side. But he immediately said, “This is it,” and pointed to one at the center. This particular suit was moss-green armor—a full warrior’s regalia complete with a five-tiered kuwagata helmet, Bishamon-jō-patterned sleeve plates, short hakama trousers, shin guards, and even rounded tabi shoes. The area from face to throat lay concealed behind a throat guard and a black-lacquered face mask of ferocious design. On its back hung a horo cloak bearing the inscription “Namu Nichirin Marishiten” at the center of a Gunbai Nichigetsu military fan motif, flanked by heraldic banners depicting dragons and tigers. Yet the remarkable phenomenon observed in this row was that not only were all armors flanking the moss-green one uniformly angled diagonally, but their directions alternated sequentially—right, left, right—forming an uncanny symmetrical pattern. When Hōsui removed the face mask, Ekisuke’s ghastly death-stricken countenance appeared beneath. Truly, Hōsui’s extraordinary foresight had proven accurate. Moreover, alternating in gruesome display with Mrs. Dannenberg’s corpse luminescence, this dwarf hunchback had been murdered in an utterly bizarre fashion—clad in armor and suspended mid-air. Ah, here too manifested the culprit’s flamboyant penchant for macabre ornamentation.

The first thing that caught their eye was the two incised wounds on the throat. To explain in detail, their combined shape resembled the character for “two,” located in the anterior neck region stretching from the thyroid cartilage to the sternum. Given their wedge-like form, they were deduced to have been inflicted by an armor-piercing dagger. Equally peculiar was the arrangement of their depths. The upper wound had first been stabbed six centimeters deep into the left side of the trachea before the blade was lifted; a shallow horizontal cut then circumvented the area, only to plunge deeply again upon reaching the right side before withdrawal. The lower wound followed a similar pattern but slanted downward, its base penetrating into the thoracic cavity. However, neither had reached major blood vessels or organs, and with both skillfully avoiding the airway, it was evident they were insufficient to cause immediate death.

Then they cut the two hemp ropes connecting the ceiling to the armor's watanuki and began extracting the corpse from its metallic shell—whereupon an abnormal sight emerged. Until then, this unnatural configuration had been concealed by the throat guard's hanging flaps, but now revealed Ekisuke wore the armor sideways. Specifically, he had been inserted through what should have been the left flank's access opening—now positioned at his back—with his protruding hunchback wedged into a carved recess of the canopy frame. Dull black blood from his wounds had dripped from the short hakama trousers into his round-toed shoes. His body temperature had vanished completely, rigor mortis beginning at the mandible—clear indicators that over two hours had elapsed since death. Yet when they fully extracted him, a more disturbing truth surfaced. Distinctive suffocation signs manifested across his entire form—not just convulsive spasms etched into every muscle, but telltale petechiae in his eyes, discolored excrement, and venous blood darkening to near-blackness. His facial contortions reached grotesque extremes, preserving every agonized twitch from his final struggle. However, no obstructing substances filled his trachea, no oral suffocation marks appeared around his mouth—and crucially, neither ligature indentations nor manual strangulation bruises could be found.

“Isn’t this Lazarev of St. Alexei Monastery reborn?” Hōsui groaned through clenched teeth. “These wounds were inflicted postmortem—you can tell by examining the blade’s withdrawal pattern.” He traced the cross-section with a gloved finger. “Normally when you stab and immediately withdraw, blood vessels contract at the incision site. But these remain slack and gaping.” His voice tightened. “And I’ve never encountered a suffocation victim displaying such textbook symptoms.” A muscle twitched beneath his eye. “This transcends mere cruelty—it’s methodology refined through unimaginable horror.” The cigarette between his lips trembled faintly. “Whatever choked the life from Ekisuke... it approached him gradually.”

“How can you tell that?” Inspector Kumajirō asked with a dubious look, whereupon Hōsui laid bare its utterly ghastly implications.

“In other words, because the duration of the death struggle corresponds proportionally to the severity of the symptoms—I believe this corpse will establish a new case study in forensic medicine.” “After all, considering that point, you must conclude Ekisuke gradually suffocated.” “During that interval, he likely waged a desperate struggle against death’s shackles.” “Yet his body had been sapped of strength by the armor’s crushing weight.” “There was nothing left he could do.” “And so, while vainly awaiting his final moment, memories from childhood to the present must have streamed through his mind—flashing like lightning, shifting ceaselessly from one to the next.” “Tell me, Kumajirō—does life hold any moment more wretched than this?” “Could there exist another murder method so cruel—so saturated with agonizing suffering?”

Even Inspector Kumajirō shuddered violently upon recalling that scene so horrifying one would involuntarily cover their eyes. “But did Ekisuke enter this of his own accord? Or was it the culprit who…” “No, once we determine that, the murder method will solve itself,” Hōsui briskly retorted. “First off, isn’t the fact that he didn’t scream the real question here?” Then Prosecutor Shikura pointed to the corpse’s head—flattened under the helmet’s weight—and presented his own theory.

“I somehow feel there’s something related to the helmet’s weight. Of course, if the order of the wound and suffocation were reversed, there’d be no issue…” “That’s right,” Hōsui nodded in agreement with the prosecutor’s theory. “There’s a theory that the Santorini vein in the cranium ruptures some time after receiving external force. At that point, the brain matter becomes compressed, so symptoms resembling suffocation are said to appear. However, they aren’t this pronounced. By and large, this corpse isn’t indicative of such a sudden death. It gradually closed in on him. Therefore, doesn’t the significance for the direct cause of death lie with the throat guard? While it isn’t enough to crush the trachea, considerable pressure is being applied to the major blood vessels in the neck. Then—as for why Ekisuke didn’t scream—doesn’t it seem clear now?”

“Hmm, so you’re saying…” “No, the result isn’t congestion—it induces cerebral anemia instead,” Hōsui replied casually, though a shadow of anguish darkened his features as if wrestling with some paradox. “Moreover, a certain Griesinger claims it’s accompanied by epileptiform convulsions.” Inspector Kumajirō delivered his verdict.

“In any case, if the incised wounds are unrelated to the cause of death, this crime is likely the product of an abnormal psychology.”

“Not at all,” Hōsui shook his head vehemently. “Why would someone as cold-blooded as this case’s culprit act on anything beyond calculation or self-interest?” They then began investigating fingerprints and blood droplets, but found absolutely nothing of note. Particularly striking was that not a single drop had been discovered outside the armor’s interior. When the investigation concluded, Prosecutor Shikura questioned why Hōsui had resorted to clairvoyant-like speculation.

“How did you know that Ekisuke was killed here?” “By the sound of the bell ringer, of course,” Hōsui answered offhandedly. “In other words, it’s what Mill called the method of residues. The fact that Adams discovered Neptune also stems from this principle—that residual phenomena are the antecedent of some unknown entity—and there is no other explanation. After all, even if a monster-like Ekisuke were to vanish, he wouldn’t be discovered. Moreover, besides the overtone, there was another abnormality in the bell ringer’s sound. Unlike the crime scene room blocked off by a door, in the corridor, the space connects through the building, you see.”

“You mean…” “That’s because there was less reverberation at the time.” Hōsui answered. “Bells generally lack any damping mechanism like a piano’s, so nothing produces such pronounced reverberation. Moreover, since each Bell Ringer differs in timbre and scale, listening at close range within the same building causes successive sounds to interfere until they become nothing but unpleasant discordance.” “Scharlstein likened this to a rotating color wheel—where initially perceiving red and green simultaneously creates an illusion of yellow at the center, but ultimately leaves only uniform gray. An apt analogy.” He paused. “Given this mansion’s dome ceilings, curved walls, and air column structures, I’d expected chaotic acoustics. Yet earlier, I heard an unnervingly clear tone.” “If sound disperses outdoors, reverberation naturally diminishes—meaning that tone must have entered through the terrace’s French windows.” His expression darkened. “This realization shocked me. Why? Because something had to block the internal cacophony spreading through the building.” “With partition doors closed at both ends,” he continued, “only one door remained open—the one leading to the circular corridor side of the arcade. Yet I distinctly recall leaving the left hanger-leg door open during my second visit earlier. That area holds... personal significance to me. I’d given strict orders against tampering with it.” “Sealing that door would complete a sound-absorbing apparatus in this section,” Hōsui concluded, “rendering it nearly anechoic. Thus, only a single strong fundamental tone from the terrace could reach us.”

“Then what closed that door?” “Ekisuke’s corpse did.” “During those gruesome moments between life and death, something moved this heavy armor—something beyond Ekisuke’s control.” “As you see, all left and right pieces slant diagonally, their directions alternating left, right, left.” “To put it plainly—when the central pale green section rotated, its shoulder guard pushed the adjacent guard sideways, making that armor rotate too. This wave-like motion propagated sequentially to the final piece.” “Then the last shoulder guard struck the handle and shut the door.”

“Then, what caused this armor to rotate?” “It’s the helmet and canopy frame,” Hōsui said as he removed the backplate and pointed to the canopy frame made of thick whale tendon. “Because if Ekisuke tried to wear this in the normal way, first off, the protrusion on his back would get in the way.” “So first, I considered how Ekisuke would handle the protrusion on his back inside the armor.” “Then what I realized was this—if he positioned his back to the fastening point beside the armor and inserted his dorsal protrusion into the canopy frame… that was the crux of it.” “In other words, this is the form I conceived—but given that Ekisuke was frail and weak, he simply lacked the strength to move such a weight.”

“Canopy frame and helmet?” Inspector Kumajirō repeated suspiciously multiple times, but Hōsui stated his conclusion offhandedly. “Now, let me explain why I mentioned the helmet and canopy frame.” “In other words, when Ekisuke’s body floats in midair, the entire armor’s center of gravity shifts upward.” “Moreover, it becomes localized on one side.” “Generally speaking, when a stationary object begins to move autonomously, it can only be due to a change in mass or a shift in the center of gravity.” “However, the cause actually lay in the helmet and canopy frame.” “If I were to explain it in detail, Ekisuke’s posture would have been as follows.” The helmet’s weight pressed down on the crown of his head; the protrusion on his back was snugly fitted into the semicircle of the canopy frame; his legs floated in midair—needless to say, this must have been an excruciatingly painful posture. Therefore, while he was conscious, he must have naturally supported his limbs somewhere to endure, so during that time, it’s reasonable to assume the center of gravity was around his lower abdomen. However, once he lost consciousness, the supporting force disappeared, causing his limbs to float in midair—this time shifting the center of gravity to the canopy frame. “In other words, it wasn’t Ekisuke’s own strength but a problem determined by inherent weight and the laws of nature.”

Though Hōsui’s superhuman analytical prowess was nothing new, the realization that he had instantaneously constructed such a deduction struck even the jaded Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō with a sensation akin to their very skulls being pierced by a tingling paralysis. Hōsui continued.

“Now, it would be good to know who was where and doing what around the time of death—though…” “However, this can wait until after we investigate the bell tower… For now, Inspector Kumajirō, I’d like you to find which servant last saw Ekisuke.”

Inspector Kumajirō soon returned with a servant around Ekisuke’s age. The man’s name was Koga Shōjūrō. “About what time was the last time you saw Ekisuke?” Hōsui promptly began by asking. “In fact, I was even aware that Mr. Ekisuke was inside this armor.” “‘And that he was dead…’” Shōjūrō uttered this unexpected statement while averting his face from the corpse with a disgusted expression.

Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō impulsively widened their eyes, but Hōsui addressed him in a composed tone, “Then, recount everything from the beginning.” “It must have started around half past eleven,” Koga Shōjūrō began his testimony with unexpected composure. “In the corridor between the chapel and dressing room, I encountered that man with a deathly pallor.” “At that moment, Mr. Ekisuke—having fallen under some cursed misfortune to become the prime suspect—started whining in a voice so strained his very fingernails seemed to blanch. But when I noticed his abnormally bloodshot eyes, I asked if he had a fever. ‘Can’t be without one,’ he muttered, then grabbed my hand and pressed it to his forehead.” “I judged it to be about thirty-eight degrees.” “After that, I recall him shuffling off toward the main hall.” “In any event, that was the last time I laid eyes on that man’s face.”

“Then, after that, did you see Ekisuke enter the armor?”

“No, all the hanging armor here was swaying unsteadily… I believe it was just past one o’clock. As you can see, the door to the circular corridor was closed, leaving the interior pitch-dark.” “However, a faint glint from the moving metal fittings caught my eye.” “So while inspecting each suit of armor one by one, I happened to grab that man’s palm beneath the shadow of this pale green shoulder guard.” “In that instant—ah—I realized this must be Ekisuke.” “After all, who but such a small man could hide himself within armor?” “So I called out ‘Mr. Ekisuke!’ then, but received no reply.” “Yet that hand burned feverishly—I’m certain it reached forty degrees.”

“Ah, could he still have been alive even after one o’clock?” Prosecutor Shikura involuntarily exclaimed,

“That is correct.” “However, there was something else strange,” Koga Shōjūrō continued, hinting at something. “Next, it was exactly two o’clock—the time when the first bell ringer was sounding—and I was on my way to call the doctor after having laid Mr. Tagō down on a bed.” “When I came back to this armor once more, I heard Mr. Ekisuke’s peculiar breathing at that time.” “Feeling a creeping unease, I immediately left the arcade, relayed the detective’s response to the phone call, and on my way back, this time I mustered the courage to touch his palm.” “Then, in the span of about ten minutes—what a shocking turn of events!” “The hand had become like ice, and his breathing had completely ceased.” “I was so startled that I fled in panic.”

Both Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō seemed to have lost all will to speak. Thus through Shōjūrō’s testimony—not only had forensic medicine’s towering edifice crumbled in gruesome collapse— If the circular corridor door’s closure had occurred just past one o’clock, then Hōsui’s gradual asphyxiation theory would have had to be uprooted from its very foundations. Even that single moment when he learned of Ekisuke’s fever cast doubt upon the estimated time of death—yet despite this, that one-hour gap proved utterly fatal. Moreover, interpreting Shōjūrō’s empirical evidence made clear: Ekisuke had been suffocated by some inexplicable method within mere ten minutes—and his throat slit thereafter.

Amidst the indescribable chaos, only Hōsui displayed an iron-like composure. “Speaking of two o’clock… At that time, the Bell Ringer was playing the hymn—” “Then, since there’s about thirty minutes between that and when the hymn sounded, the sequence of events before and after aligns without gaps.” “If we go to the bell tower, we might uncover something about Ekisuke’s cause of death,” he muttered in a soliloquy-like tone, then added, “By the way, did Ekisuke have any knowledge of armor?”

“Yes, all maintenance was handled by this man, and since he would occasionally show off his knowledge of armor…” After dismissing Shōjūrō, the prosecutor spoke as if he had been waiting for that moment.

“This may be a somewhat outlandish idea,” Prosecutor Shikura ventured, “but could Ekisuke have committed suicide, with the culprit applying this wound afterward?” “Oh, really?” Hōsui retorted with palpable exasperation. “So you suggest one might don hanging armor alone—but then who tightened these helmet cords? Compare them with the others yourself. All employ formal knotting methods—three to five lacing points in dual front-and-back styles—six variations following ancient traditions. Yet this five-plate kuwagata helmet alone deviates so grossly from proper technique that we can’t possibly attribute it to Ekisuke, who was thoroughly versed in armor.” His voice sharpened with forensic precision. “The reason I questioned Shōjūrō about this now aligns precisely with your own line of inquiry.”

"But isn't this a male knot?" Inspector Kumajirō blustered. "What’s this—spouting Sexton Blake-level deductions now?" Hōsui directed a contemptuous gaze at him. "Even if it’s a male knot, even if there are men’s shoeprints in women’s shoes… What use could such trifles possibly have in this bottomless case? These are nothing but the culprit’s signposts." He then added in a languid tone, "Ekisuke shall be crushed and killed—" he muttered.

The line from the Apocalyptic Diagram prophesying Ekisuke’s corpse-form lingered in everyone’s mind, yet it held a peculiar force that seemed to stifle any utterance. When Prosecutor Shikura repeated it as if dragged along by some compulsion, his voice only thickened the swamp-like air with deeper gloom. “Ah, so that’s it, Prosecutor Shikura—the helmet and canopy bone… You see,” Hōsui said with glacial calm, “even if this appears at first glance like some forensic aberration, shouldn’t we acknowledge two focal points in this corpse? The essential mystery rather lies in whether Ekisuke entered this [armor] willingly and why he donned it… That is—the circumstances surrounding his entry into this harness, and the motive compelling the killer to murder. Though naturally,” he added, “there’s also an element of challenge directed at us—”

“Nonsense!” Inspector Kumajirō shouted, his voice thick with indignation. “Better to plant a needle than silence a mouth—isn’t that right? It’s the criminal’s transparent self-defense tactic. It’s already certain that Ekisuke was an accomplice. This is the conclusion of the Dannenberg case.” “This isn’t some Habsburg court conspiracy,” Hōsui once again mocked the intuitive investigation chief. “If the culprit were the type to use an accomplice to attempt poisoning, by now you’d be giving your statement for the record.”

Then he started walking toward the corridor,

“Well then, I shall now go to the bell tower to see how my haphazard attempt pans out.” At that moment, one of the plainclothes officers, having finished investigating the area with glass fragments, arrived with a floor plan; Hōsui merely felt the hard object seemingly wrapped within it, promptly stowed it in his coat, and proceeded to the bell tower. Upon ascending the staircase that bent twice, they found themselves in a key-shaped hallway forming an almost semicircle, with three doors at the center and on either side. Both Inspector Kumajirō and Prosecutor Shikura were tensed with grim resolve; each time they imagined the form of a grotesque superhuman that might be crouching deep within the trap, they held their breath. However, when the rightmost door was opened, Kumajirō—apparently seeing something—thudded over to the right. By the bell dial of the Bell Ringer against the wall, there indeed lay Kamiya Nobuko, collapsed. There she lay, supine in that position—leaving only her lower body on the performance chair—her right hand tightly gripping an armor-piercing dagger.

"Ah, this one!" Inspector Kumajirō cried out in utter frenzy, stamping down on Nobuko's shoulder—but at that moment, he noticed Hōsui gazing at the central door almost in a daze. From within the eggshell-colored paint, a starkly square white object had emerged. When they approached, both Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō involuntarily stiffened. On that scrap of paper was… Sylphus Verschwinden (Spirit of the wind, vanish!)

Part III: Kuroshikan Psychopathology

1. Sylph... Another name?

Sylphus Verschwinden (O sylph. vanish!) High on the central door among the three in the Bell Ringer chamber, another line from the Faustian pentagram incantation had been pasted in a pallid color that seemed to mock their gaze. Not only had they masculinized the female Sylphe in this instance as well, but they had also employed angular Gothic letters reminiscent of old Irish script—so much so that even a single beard-like line as fine as a hair offered no clue to discern the writer’s gender from the characteristics of the penmanship, rendering such attempts utterly futile.

How had they slipped through that tight encirclement? Or was it that Nobuko—being the culprit—had perceived the siege born of Hōsui’s ingenuity and resorted to desperate measures… In any case, here they had to determine the demon behind that ironic overtone performance. “This is unexpected,” Hōsui remarked. “A fainting spell?” After briskly examining Nobuko’s entire body with clinical efficiency, he shot a sharp glance at Kumajirō’s shoes. “Her heartbeat is faint but audible. Though shallow, her breathing persists.” “Moreover,” he continued, “as you see here—her pupillary response remains firm.”

Once Hōsui delivered this diagnosis, even Inspector Kumajirō—who had just moments ago trampled her shoulder as if she were mere filth—now began to regret his rashness. The reason lay in the figure of Kamiya Nobuko before them—arched backward in her chair, gripping the armor-piercing dagger as if proclaiming, *Behold the culprit!* Until then, they had only seen wild waves of chaos stirred by the specter’s brazen schemes, with no human shadow yet cast upon the case’s surface. But as a stream of bubbles rose smoothly only to burst upon the water’s face, what emerged was none other than this demonic lotus now laid bare. Thus, as even Kumajirō’s fervor cooled, his descent into paranoid wariness became inevitable. Truly—when faced with this posture defying all expectation—did not suspicion now swing toward the opposite extreme? Though Nobuko brandished the dagger thought to have pierced Ekisuke’s throat like irrefutable proof, they needed to dissect with even greater rigor the path leading to her unconsciousness. That alone was their conclusion. If Queen Buzur chanted, rain would fall—and so this case’s perversity had finally fastened itself to a black man’s penis.

At this juncture, I believe it is necessary to describe the general layout of the Bell Ringer chamber. As mentioned in the previous volume, the chamber adjoined the chapel’s dome and was situated at the base of the spire housing the bell ringer. At the top of the stairs lay a key-shaped hallway forming an almost semicircle, with three doors at the center—the apex of the semicircle—and on either side. However, upon entering the room, it became apparent that only the leftmost door had been open at that time. When viewing the walls from inside, one could discern they had been acoustically engineered. To put it simply, it resembled a giant scallop shell—or perhaps a concave ellipse. Before housing the Bell Ringer, this space had likely served as the string quartet’s performance room. Consequently, not only did the central door appear unnaturally positioned externally, but traces suggested it had been cut into the wall later. Moreover, only one door stood remarkably large, its height nearly exceeding three meters. From there to the opposite wall stretched bare sawara cypress paneling. The Bell Ringer’s keyboard had been set into a key-shaped recess carved from the wall. Thirty-three bells—each tuned to specific notes—hung from the ceiling directly above. They connected to a keyboard and pedals designed to produce that desolate monastic tone Calvin reportedly favored centuries prior—a sound legends claim could set Dutch windmills spinning unaided when carried on canal waters. The acoustic structure extended to the ceiling, forming a gentle slope from elliptical walls to keyboard. A round hole pierced its center like a soundboard, opening into a long prismatic space above. Both ends connected to the Zodiac Rose Windows visible earlier from the front garden. Each illustrated panel depicting ecliptic constellations had been ingeniously detached from the main board, creating narrow gaps that vibrated faintly with air currents. Though vaguely resembling musical glass, sounds passing through these gaps softened as if muted—preserving harmonious chords and preventing dissonance even during rapid performances. This mechanism—including its thirty-three bells—mimicked Berlin’s Parochialkirche design, though there it faced inward toward chapel interiors. Thus Hōsui’s investigation extended to the rose windows’ vicinity—yet yielded only one discovery: an iron ladder ascending the spire ran along their exterior.

Before long, Hōsui ordered the plainclothes officers to stand outside while he himself pressed the keyboard with various contrivances, attempting above all to substantiate the overtone that lay at the heart of their doubts—but in the end, the experiment proved futile. Ultimately, only two facts were clarified: that the Bell Ringer could produce notes spanning no more than two octaves, and that the overtones they had previously heard belonged to a higher register. In times past, a spectral phenomenon quite similar to this had manifested in the bell tones of Saint Alexei Temple. Yet that had been merely a mechanical issue—nothing more than the sequence in which the bells were swung. This case differed fundamentally: first, they had confirmed over thirty distinct pitches—in other words, a primal doubt now resided in the very mass of the bells themselves, touching upon universal laws of material composition. Therefore, through exhaustive analysis, they found themselves compelled toward an extreme conclusion—either they must reject the alloy composition of the bells, or else acknowledge some spiritual entity plucking musical tones from empty air. As confirmation of the overtone mystery solidified, an expression of acute exhaustion surfaced on Hōsui’s face—he appeared to have depleted even the vigor required for speech. Yet by another measure, duty demanded he now apply his strained nerves to Nobuko’s unconsciousness—a phenomenon surpassing even this strangeness. By then, sunset approached. The grand edifice had dissolved into shadowy darkness, save for faint light seeping through rose windows that wavered spectrally in chill air. Through this gloom passed occasional wing-like shadows—likely raven flocks skirting past the rose panes as they returned to perch above the spire’s swinging bell.

Now, regarding Nobuko’s condition as well, a detailed account was deemed necessary. Nobuko sat on the round swivel chair with only her hips remaining in contact—her lower body turned slightly leftward while her upper torso leaned somewhat rightward in opposition—then arched sharply backward with a heavy creak. Even from her inverted triangular posture, it was clear she had collapsed backward in that very position during the performance. Yet mysteriously, there was not a single wound across her entire body—only a trace of subcutaneous bleeding remained on the back of her head from where she had struck the floor. Moreover, there were no signs indicative of poisoning. Her eyes were wide open but dull and clouded with lifelessness, her expression devoid of tension; coupled with her slackened jaw, she retained an unpleasant expression that might best be described as nauseous. Her entire body exhibited the characteristic signs of simple syncope—no traces of convulsions, limbs as limp as cotton—yet suspiciously, the armor-piercing dagger glistening with a faint residue of grease remained tightly clutched in her grip; even when her arm was lifted and shaken, it showed no sign of slipping from her palm. In conclusion, the cause of her unconsciousness could only be attributed to something latent within Nobuko’s own body. Hōsui, seeming to have reached a decision in his mind, spoke to the plainclothes officer who had lifted Nobuko.

“Please inform the forensic doctor from headquarters—first, have them perform gastric lavage.” “Next, have them test her stomach contents and urine, and conduct a gynecological examination.” “And another thing—have them check for pressure pain points and muscle reflexes across her entire body.”

Once Nobuko had been taken downstairs, Hōsui took a deep gulp of tobacco smoke and—

“Ah... This case... I can’t possibly bring it into focus,” he murmured in a withered voice.

“But isn’t what’s apparent on Nobuko’s body alone straightforward?” “Come now—everything will become clear once she regains consciousness.” Prosecutor Shikura dismissed casually, but Hōsui—his countenance saturated with doubt—persisted in sighing heavily.

“Not at all—the chaotic and inverted aspects remain unchanged.” “In fact, this may prove more inscrutable than Mrs. Dannenberg or Ekisuke.” “That’s precisely because it lacks malicious symptomatology.” “There appears to be nothing substantial, yet contradictions abound.” “In any case, I’ve resolved to request expert forensic analysis.” “With my superficial knowledge alone, how could I possibly render such a monstrous judgment about cerebellar function?” “After all, the principles of kinesthetic conduction have been utterly deranged.”

“But something this simple…” Inspector Kumajirō attempted to raise an objection, but Hōsui abruptly cut him off— “Because if no cause is found in her internal organs and no toxic drugs are detected, then it would end up vanishing to the Wind Spirit’s Scorpio Palace (which governs motor nerves)—that’s what it’ll come to.” “This is no joke—where could there possibly be any external cause? And there’s no sign of convulsions—isn’t this clearly just a fainting spell?” This time, Prosecutor Shikura snarled. “You insist on making convoluted observations even of the simplest things—it’s exasperating.”

“Of course it’s clear.” “However, unconsciousness—that’s precisely the issue.” “If that were within psychopathology’s domain, Pepper’s old *Differential Diagnosis of Similar Symptoms* alone would settle it handily.” “It’s certainly neither epilepsy nor a hysterical seizure.” “Also, mental derangement can be discerned from facial expressions—and this is decidedly not a case of apparent death, pathological half-sleep, or electric sleep therapy,” Hōsui said, then spent some time staring up at the ceiling before finally speaking in an unchanging husky voice.

“But Shikura—even if unconsciousness reaches their lower nerves—those nerves keep thrashing about willfully in random directions! What in blazes does that mean?” “That’s why I’ve been driven to this conviction.” “Take her gripping the armor-piercing dagger—even if we found a favorable explanation for that.” “Unless we unravel the mystery of those overtones, we’ve no choice but to suspect self-induced causes for her unconsciousness—don’t you see?” “Well?”

“That’s mythology,” Prosecutor Shikura retorted to Inspector Kumajirō. “You should rest awhile,” he added, turning to Hōsui. “You’re completely exhausted.” Though Inspector Kumajirō refused to entertain the suggestion, Hōsui persisted in a dream-laden voice.

“Exactly, Inspector Kumajirō. In fact, that must be a legend,” Prosecutor Shikura remarked. “In Negelain’s *Nordic Legendology*, there’s an account of Margrave Rüdesheim of Zekkingen who once had wandering minstrels singing through his lands,” Hōsui continued. “The era followed Frederick V’s Crusade—listen carefully now. When the minstrel Oswald drank wine infused with Ventosin—said to be henbane down—his body began swaying like a wave while clutching his lyre, until he collapsed onto Margravine Gertrude’s lap.” “Having previously learned of Ventosin’s properties from Lebedos—a sorcerer of Karpathos Island north of Crete—Rüdesheim immediately beheaded him and burned both head and corpse.” “Though attributed to Iuphesisus, poet-king of the wandering minstrels, historian Belforê identifies this as the earliest record of pure Arabian-Carpathian sorcery brought north by Crusaders. He concludes Dr. Faust perfected this tradition, becoming medieval magic’s living embodiment.”

“Ah, I see,” Prosecutor Shikura laughed sardonically. “When May arrives, apple blossoms bloom, and a sensual stench wafts from the cheese-making hut in the castle grounds. If that’s the case, well—her husband’s off on a Crusade after all. While he’s away crusading, if she managed to have a spare key made for her chastity belt, then I suppose it couldn’t be helped that his wife would dally with a lyric poet. But wait—let’s redirect that line of thought to the murder case.” Hōsui replied with a half-smile, his tone grave.

“Sloppy work, Shikura. For a prosecutor, you’re neglecting your study of pathological psychology. If that weren’t the case, you’d naturally remember how sorcerous spirits appear in epic poems like the *Ancient Danish Legend Collection*—how syphilitic epileptics are frequently cited as examples there. That much should be obvious.” “Now, though this Rüdesheim tale isn’t specifically cited, Möricke’s *In a Twilight State* scientifically explains Oswald’s trance-like state from the poem.” “In its chapter on simple syncope, it states: When unconsciousness strikes, cerebral functions concentrate unilaterally—volition vanishes instantly, and a floating sensation suffuses the body.” “However, since cerebellar function ceases slightly later, these two forces interact dynamically—briefly inducing full-body swaying like a transverse wave’s impact.” “Yet Nobuko’s body defied natural laws then—it moved *oppositely*.” Hōsui flipped over the swivel chair she’d occupied and pointed at its central spindle. “Incidentally, Shikura—despite my grandiose ‘natural laws’ talk—this is merely about a chair’s rotation.” “The spiral direction here shows a right-handed twist.” “The spindle has fully submerged into the spiral hole, with rightward descending rotation at its absolute limit.” “But consider Nobuko’s posture: hips drawn deep into the seat, lower body angled slightly leftward while her upper torso leans right.” “That form could only have fallen while rotating leftward.” “This blatantly violates physical laws.” “Because leftward rotation would require the chair to lift upward.”

“None of your vague rhetorical questions.” When Inspector Kumajirō balked, Hōsui laid out every observational point and exposed the contradictions.

“Of course, I don’t think this current form was the original one from the start. However, even if there had been some leeway in the spiral—you mustn’t focus solely on the horizontal sway during unconsciousness and forget about the vertical force—weight acting perpendicularly. Because that exists, even while swaying, the direction is gradually being determined. In other words, isn’t it only natural that its amplitude would grow larger in the rightward direction where it’s diminishing? Furthermore, let’s propose another scenario—assuming that after making a large rotation to the right this time, the spiral became stuck in its current position. But during that rotation, centrifugal force would naturally come into play, after all. Therefore, I believe there’s no conceivable reason why such a posture akin to formal kneeling would naturally result when [the rotation] came to a halt. Therefore, Inspector Kumajirō, when you compare the chair’s spiral with Nobuko’s posture, an astonishing contradiction emerges there.”

“Ah… A faint accompanied by volition…,” Prosecutor Shikura sighed with a hint of bewilderment. “If that were indeed true—the Green family’s Ada.” “So…” Hōsui clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing methodically around the room. “I wouldn’t order gastric lavages or urine tests without good reason." “Of course, the problem lies in the scenario where such self-induced evidence isn’t discovered,” he said, stopping in front of the keyboard and pressing it down with his palm. That act suggested the existence of an alternative theory.

“It’s exactly as I said. Performing on the Bell Ringer requires physical strength beyond that of a woman. Even a simple hymn—repeat it three times, and you’ll usually end up completely worn out. So though the tonal quality gradually weakened at that time, I believe the cause likely lies somewhere around here.” “So you’re saying the cause of her fainting was that exhaustion?” Inspector Kumajirō gasped.

“Well—‘Don’t trust testimony given in exhaustion,’ as Stern warns. If some unexpected force were to act upon that situation, it would undoubtedly create the perfect conditions. However, all of this is only valid once the cause of the overtone generation has been proven. That is indeed an alibi within an alibi, isn’t it?”

“Then are you suggesting Nobuko’s performance technique was extraordinary?” the prosecutor asked incredulously. “I can scarcely believe those overtones could be explained by the bell alone,” Hōsui countered. “The more pressing issue lies in whether she was compelled to grip that armor-piercing dagger.” “Impossible—no one maintains a deathgrip after losing consciousness,” Hōsui muttered as he resumed pacing, his voice drained of vigor. “Naturally there are conflicting theories—hence my request for expert analysis. This also intersects temporally with Ekisuke’s death.” “The servant Shōjūrō claims he distinctly heard Ekisuke’s breathing at two o’clock—presumed to be an hour postmortem—yet at that precise moment, Nobuko was performing the sutra hymn.” “Thus we must conclude someone slit Ekisuke’s throat and induced her unconsciousness within the twenty minutes preceding her final hymn.” A tremor entered his words. “What terrifies me is potential counterevidence emerging from this temporal nexus.” “Fundamentally, isn’t this encirclement strategy’s result simply arithmetic? Two minus one equals one.” His fingers twitched as if solving an invisible equation. “But those overtones...the overtones...”

Beyond that lay only the realm of chaos. Hōsui mustered every ounce of his vital energy, trying to focus everything on Nobuko. For the lessons of past cases like the Constance Kent Case and the Green Murder Case were inciting repeated observations in this instance. However, the numerous contradictions—fractured into a hundred blossoms and a thousand petals—failed to instill any firm conviction in even Hōsui’s individual analytical theories. Indeed, on the surface, it skillfully wielded paradoxical rhetoric, cloaked in grandiose expressions. But even as he explained away the contradictions, new doubts arose, and like a cursed Dutchman, he continued to wander in exhaustion. And when the problem finally collided head-on with the overtones, Hōsui had no choice but to be dragged back once more by an alternative theory. Suddenly, as if struck by divine inspiration, he came to a halt, his eyes brimming with an abnormal radiance.

“Shikura, your remark gave me an excellent hint. When you said, ‘The overtones cannot be proven by this bell alone,’ what you ultimately meant was this: we must search for something to replace the spiritualism of the performance. In other words, it also means that if there’s something like a lithophone or a wooden instrument somewhere else, we should acoustically prove its existence. Having noticed that, I recalled the old tale of ‘Gerbert’s Moon Lute’—a phenomenon once called the mystery of the Magdeburg Archbishop’s Palace in ancient times.”

“Gerbert’s Moon Lute?!” Prosecutor Shikura was flustered by Hōsui’s abrupt new theory. “What on earth does a moon lute have to do with the bell contraption?” “That Gerbert refers to Sylvester II.” “He was the master of Witchgus, who created that Codex of Curses!” Hōsui shouted in a voice charged with intensity. And while gazing at the hazy shadow figure cast on the floor, he continued to weave a phantasmal rhyme.

“Now, within *The Tsuveru Epic Anthology* compiled by Penkuraiku—a 14th-century Anglo-Dutch linguist—there is a supernatural tale concerning Gerbert.” “Of course, given the anti-Saracen sentiment of the time, Gerbert is portrayed as nothing short of a sorcerer—but let me extract that passage nonetheless.” “It’s a kind of alchemical lyric poem.” Gerbert gazes up at the Seven Stars of Hyades. Plays the flat zither. First, he plucks the low string; then falls silent.

However, an instant later, The moon lute at the side sounded with no one there. Like a phantom’s voice, it answered with a high-pitched string tone. Therefore, The bystanders covered their ears and fled away, so it is said. “However, if one consults Kiesewetter’s *History of Ancient Instruments*, the moon lute is a gut-string instrument, but those of the flat zither from the tenth century had metal strings instead of gut, producing a sound quite close to the modern metallophone—or so it states.” “So I once attempted to dissect that supernatural tale.” “Now, Inspector Kumajirō, I want you to fully digest the relationship between medieval non-literary epics and this murder case here.”

“Hmph, there’s still more?” Inspector Kumajirō spat out, along with tobacco wet with saliva. “I thought we’d finished with horns and chainmail back at that blacksmith’s murder earlier.” “There certainly is.” “That is *Nicolas et Jeanne*, penned by the historian Villaret.” “When faced with the Miracle Maiden, the advisory judges began trembling uncontrollably, displaying nerves of an utterly bizarre abnormality.” “I find it extremely suspicious that the luminaries of later forensic psychopathology never cite that psychological state.” “Now, in this case, I’ve conceived of an exceedingly sorcerous resonance phenomenon.” “In other words, to explain it using a piano analogy: if one lightly presses down the first key so that no sound is produced, then strikes the next key forcefully, and releases the finger pressing the first key around when that sound fades, then from that point onward, the first key will clearly emit an oddly vocal-like timbre.” “Of course, it’s a resonance phenomenon.” “In other words, because the sound contains overtones—that is, sounds with double the frequency—but seeking such a resonance phenomenon in a bell may be theoretically entirely impossible.” “But from that, elemental hints can also be drawn out.” “That’s what we mean by a mimetic sound.” “Inspector Kumajirō, do you know about the xylophone?” “In other words, it means that when you strike dried wood fragments or certain types of stones, they emit metallic sounds.” “In Ancient China, there were lithophones like the bianqing and metallophones like the fangxiang; among the ancient Inca, dried wooden drums were known, and among the Amazonian Indians, blade-shaped sonorous stones were also documented.” “However, what I am aiming for is not such monophonic elements or exposed forms of sound sources.” “Now, what would you think if you heard such an astonishing fact—” “It is said that Confucius, upon learning of the wooden pillar within Shun’s study of rhyme that emitted seven kinds of sounds, was left utterly astounded.” “…and similar records remain in the Torquishiro ruins of Russia, as well as in the first-layer city ruins of Troy—dating to 1500 BCE, the time of its fall.” After citing these erudite references, Hōsui attempted to align the scientific interpretations of these ancient texts, one by one, with the murder case’s tangible visual evidence.

“In any case, given that there’s even a hidden-revealing door by Dr. Magic Dee.” “It’s unthinkable that this mansion doesn’t contain even more sorcerous mechanical contrivances than that.” “Undoubtedly, in the modifications made to the original British architect Digsby’s design, Sanzō’s Witchgus curse spirit must be looming.” “In other words—to a single pillar or crossbeam. Then the bellows, and even the unglazed vermilion lines piercing through the corridor walls—I think we should pay attention to those as well.”

“So what—you need the blueprint for this mansion or something?” Inspector Kumajirō shouted in utter exasperation. “Yes, I demand the entire mansion’s.” “If we do that, I think we can probably break through the criminal’s far-fetched alibi,” Hōsui retorted, then proceeded to outline two approaches. “In any case, it may seem like an endless journey, but the path to find the sylph lies only in these two.” “In other words, if Gerbert-style resonance playing were to be recreated in the result, there would be no issue in asserting that Nobuko deliberately induced her own fainting.” “Furthermore, if some mimetic method can be proven, then it can be said that the perpetrator gave Nobuko a cause to faint and subsequently left the bell tower.” “In any case, at the time the overtone was emitted, there was no one here besides Nobuko.” “That much is clear.”

“No, the overtone is merely incidental,” Inspector Kumajirō countered with a dissenting view. “In short, it’s your penchant for convoluted theories. It’s nothing more than a matter of logical form, isn’t it? If we can just figure out why Nobuko fainted, there’s no need for you to go banging your head against a stone wall from the start.” “However, Inspector Kumajirō,” Hōsui retorted sarcastically, “if one were to rely solely on Nobuko’s testimony, I imagine it would likely amount to nothing more than this: ‘I started feeling unwell and don’t remember anything after that—…’ No, that’s not all. Within that overtone lie concealed all possible questions—starting from the cause of her fainting, to her gripping the armor-piercing dagger, and even up to the contradiction in the rotating chair I pointed out earlier. In fact, I’d say it may well extend to parts of the Ekisuke incident itself.”

“Yes, it’s certainly spiritualism,” Prosecutor Shikura murmured somberly, to which Hōsui doggedly reaffirmed his own theory.

“No—it’s more than that. “Paranormal instrument performances are by no means rare occurrences. “Even in Schröder’s *Biomagnetism* alone, nearly twenty examples are cited. “But the crux lies in tonal transformation. “Consider Antiochus of Alexandria—that supreme magus of antiquity whom even Saint Origen lavished with praise—who allegedly performed remote playings of hydraulis water organs, yet no chronicle preserves their timbre. “Then Albertus Magnus—a high-ranking Dominican monk in late thirteenth-century Erfurt, “renowned as an alchemist-magician yet also a philosopher of universals, peerless among medieval physicists and spiritualists—when he played his portable organ, the same principle held. “Later, in modern times, the great Italian medium Eusapia Palladino manipulated a hand organ within wire meshes—yet even that mad scholar Flammarion neglected to describe its essential tones. “Thus we see: even spiritual phenomena may reign over time and space yet lack dominion over material structure. “But Inspector Kumajirō—the grand law of material composition has been deftly overturned! “Ah—what a fearsome adversary! “The sylph—that fairy of air and sound—struck the bell and fled!”

Ultimately, Hōsui’s deductions regarding the overtone had merely delineated the limits of human thought and creativity with clarity.

However, the criminal had effortlessly surpassed even that boundary, accomplishing a supernatural miracle unimaginable even in one’s wildest dreams. Thus, no sooner had they managed to repel the tangled web than the wall before their eyes already pierced through the clouds. Given this, it went without saying that little expectation could now be placed on Nobuko’s testimony. As for the two paths Hōsui had revealed to reach that mysterious overtone, they inspired only a one-in-a-million hope—a sense of desolation so profound that even these avenues seemed on the verge of being forgotten. Before long, when they left the bell ringer room and returned to Mrs. Dannenberg’s chamber, her corpse had already been removed for autopsy. In that gloomy room, a single plainclothes officer—whom they had earlier ordered to investigate the family’s movements—stood waiting alone. The results of the investigation extracted from the servants were as follows.

Furuyatsuki Hatatarō.

After lunch at noon, he held discussions with three other family members in the hall; at 1:50 PM, they proceeded together to the chapel upon the signal of the sutra hymn, performed the requiem, and at 2:35 PM exited the chapel with the three others and entered his room. Olga Krivov (same as above)

Galibarda Serena (same as above)

Ottokar Levez (same as above)

Tagō Shinsai. Until 1:30 PM, he extracted excerpts from past funeral records with two servants; after questioning, he lay down in his room.

Kuga Chinako. After questioning, she did not leave the library, a fact attested to by the book-carrying girl. Kamiya Nobuko. Except for when she had lunch brought to her room at noon, there were no sightings of her in the hallway, leading to the inference that she remained secluded in her room. At around 1:30 PM, someone witnessed a figure ascending the bell tower stairs.

Outside of the aforementioned facts, there were no abnormalities whatsoever.

“Hōsui, the road to Damascus lies solely along this path,” Prosecutor Shikura declared, exchanging a glance with Kumajirō while rubbing his hands together with evident satisfaction. “Observe. Does not every thread converge upon Nobuko?” With the hand that had moments earlier thrust the investigation report into his coat pocket, Hōsui withdrew the glass fragments and adjacent floor plan he had obtained in the arcade. Yet when unfolded, what struck their eyes was yet another astonishment in this case. What lay wrapped within the floor plan imprinted with two footprints? Against all expectation—fragments of a photographic plate.

II. Location of the Apparition Gathering

Silver iodide plate—even Hōsui found himself at a loss for words before the already exposed photographic plate. In fact, it formed a starkly detached contrast to this case. Therefore, even if one were to laboriously trace through all the twists and turns and scrutinize the sequence of events from the beginning, not only were there no sections that could be symbolized by a photosensitive material like a photographic plate, but not even a single hyphen-like element that projected or alluded to it could be found. If that were indeed related to actual criminal acts, it might be nothing short of a divine work.

Thus, a deathly silence lingered for some time. In the meantime, a servant threw pine firewood into the hearth, and as the room grew dimly warm, Hōsui let out a faint sigh while gazing at the tongues of flame. "Ah, it's just like a dinosaur egg!" "But what on earth was it needed for?" Prosecutor Shikura restated Hōsui's forceful analogy in plain terms. And then, when someone turned the switch,

“It can’t possibly be for photography,” Inspector Kumajirō blinked at the sudden brightness. “No, the apparition might be real.” “First of all—I hear Ekisuke witnessed something during last night’s Divine Inquisition—someone was moving on the protruding veranda of the adjacent room and dropped something to the ground.” “Moreover, none of the seven had left their rooms at that time.” “If it had been dropped from a downstairs window, there wouldn’t have been such meticulous care taken to shatter it so finely.”

“Hmm, that apparition is likely real,” Hōsui replied, blowing a smoke ring, “but it’s also a fact that bastard ended up dead afterward.” “But look—try dividing the Dannenberg case and everything that followed into two separate categories.” “The paradox I hold would cleanly vanish, wouldn’t it?” “In other words, the sylph knew the water deity was there and killed it.” “We must never allow ourselves to be dazzled by the fact that those two incantations are consecutive.” “However, the criminal is one person.”

“Then, besides Ekisuke—” Inspector Kumajirō widened his eyes in surprise, but Prosecutor Shikura cut him off, “Ah, just leave it be. You’re letting your own fantasies run wild,” he said, casting a reproachful look at Hōsui. “Frankly, your theory reeks of fin-de-siècle decadence. You despise nature and the mundane. In dandyish artifice, there is certainly neither authenticity nor common sense. In fact, just moments ago, you were spinning fantasies around those overtones with your dream-like sound effects. But what if Nobuko’s playing overlapped with those similar faint sounds?”

“Well, this is a surprise! Have you really reached that age already?” [Prosecutor Shikura] made a clownish face, but Hōsui smiled back ironically. “Generally speaking—whether it’s Hensen or Ewald—even while debating auditory physiology, they clearly acknowledge this much.” “In other words, applying this to your scenario—even if two faint sounds of similar timbre overlap, the lower-pitched one won’t induce vibrations in the basilar membrane of the inner ear.” “However, when senile changes occur, the opposite becomes true,” he declared to the prosecutor. Then, as he lowered his gaze back to the photographic plate, a complex transformation arose in his expression.

“But what of this contradictory creation?” Hōsui pressed. “Even I can’t grasp the meaning behind this juxtaposition. Yet something resonates—a sharp metallic ring. It speaks in an uncanny voice: ‘Thus spake Zarathustra—’” “What could Nietzsche possibly have to do with this?” Prosecutor Shikura stared in astonishment. “No, not Strauss’s tone poem,” Hōsui countered. “This refers to the spellcraft compendium of the Yin-Yang Sect—that ascetic Persian religion Zarathustra founded. ‘The light bestowed by divinity may strike down even its source,’ it declares. Naturally, the incantation aims to induce divine rapture.” He leaned forward, uncharacteristically mystical. “When practitioners of starvation-induced possession persist in this method, ascetics reportedly experience unified hallucinations.” The words hung heavy—impossible to measure what lurked in reason’s unfathomable shadows. Yet when cross-referenced with the Divine Inquisition’s anomalies, a chilling possibility emerged: perhaps the photographic plate exposed to corpse-candle flames had shown Mrs. Dannenberg a vision of Sanzō, stealing her consciousness. These profoundly esoteric implications thickened like smoke—until Hōsui abruptly stood, offering concrete form to the ephemeral.

“However, this makes the reenactment of the Divine Inquisition an urgent necessity.” “Now then—I’ll go inspect the two footprints marked on this floor plan in the back garden.” However, as they passed by the downstairs library en route, Hōsui stopped dead in his tracks as though nailed to the floor. Inspector Kumajirō checked his watch. “Four-twenty—it’ll soon be too dark to see our feet.” “The linguistics collection can wait.”

“No, I’m here to examine the original score of the requiem,” Hōsui flatly declared, leaving the other two flabbergasted. But through this, it became clear that Hōsui harbored an intense fixation on that inexplicable detail—how during the earlier performance near the final note, the two violins had applied mutes in a manner so blatantly disregarding the musical conception. He turned the handle behind him while continuing to speak. “Inspector Kumajirō, isn’t Sanzō truly a great symbolist poet?” “To that man, even this colossal mansion amounts to nothing more than a ‘storehouse woven from shadows and symbols.’” “Like celestial bodies scattering constellations, he has strewn countless emblems about—through their analogies and synthesis, he seeks to hint at a single terrifying entity.” “So even if you try to view this case through that symbolic fog, how could anything possibly come into focus?” “We must absolutely plumb the depths of that inscrutable character.”

That this ultimate conclusion signified the unknown half-leaf of the Apocalyptic Diagram… and that it was but one of the converging currents focused upon that singular point—how he inwardly gasped and writhed in his desperate search for it was all too easily imagined. However, when he opened the door and found no one there, Hōsui was struck by a dazzling sensation. The walls on all four sides were divided by Gondaldo-style paneling, their upper sections constructed into an encircling light layer where Ionic-style caryatids stood lined up, supporting the ceiling’s corbels above their heads. And the light entering through the light layer imparted an indescribably divine vitality to the ceiling painting of *Danaë’s Golden Rain Conception* surrounded by the Twenty-Four Elders of the Apocalypse. From the study furniture placed on the floor with Tuileries-style monogrammed patterns to the overall color scheme contrasting milky white marble with scorched brown—all of it constituted a study in eighteenth-century Viennese style, utterly unattainable even in shadow within Japan. Crossing that vacant library and opening the door at the far end where light streamed in, he arrived at Furuyatsuki’s archive—a place coveted by connoisseurs. At the back of bookshelves divided into over twenty layers was a desk, where Kuga Chinako’s sardonic wit lay in wait.

“Oh, since you’ve come to this room, it seems nothing of significance occurred after all.” “The fact is exactly as you say. Since that incident, instead of the automaton appearing, apparitions have been emerging continuously,” Hōsui responded with a bitter smile, having been preempted. “Exactly as I thought.” “Just now, there were those strange overtones again.” “But surely you wouldn’t go so far as to make Ms. Nobuko the culprit, would you?” “Ah, so you were aware of those overtones,” Hōsui said, his eyelids fluttering faintly before he fixed her with a probing gaze.

“However, I’ve grasped the entire structure of this case.” “That is precisely the Minkowskian four-dimensional world you mentioned,” she replied unflinchingly before steering the conversation forward. “Now, regarding my investigation into that temporal sphere—the original requiem score does exist here, does it not?” “Requiem⁉” Kuga’s face twisted in bewilderment. “But what could you possibly achieve by examining that?” “So you still haven’t realized?” Hōsui betrayed faint surprise before answering with grave solemnity.

“In fact, near the finale, two violins applied mutes.” “Therefore, I actually felt as if I were listening to Berlioz’s *Symphonie fantastique*.” “Indeed, in that piece, when the criminal ascends the gallows and descends into hell—at the moment meant to evoke thunder—there was a solo of hail-like hand drums, wasn’t there?” “There, I felt as if I heard Dr. Sanzō’s voice.” “Oh, what a terrible miscalculation,” Chinako said with a pitying smile,

“That is not Dr. Sanzō’s work.” “It is the work of the renowned architect Claude Digsby himself.” “In any case, if you’re going to concern yourself with such a thing, I suppose we’ve gained another apparition.” “However, if it’s absolutely necessary for your contrapuntal reasoning, I’ll do my best to find it.” That Hōsui had momentarily lost himself was by no means unreasonable. The requiem he had speculated to be John Steiner’s creation—a professor of music at Oxford who had died at this century’s dawn—and believed Sanzō had deliberately altered with some intent, was in fact none other than the work of Digsby, this mansion’s architect. Could it be that this celebrated architect—said to have cast himself into the sea from the Rangō during his return voyage—held some connection to these bizarre events? Yet that Hōsui had pursued inquiries into the realm of the dead from the very outset could indeed be deemed an act of prescient brilliance.

While Kuga Chinako searched for the original score, Hōsui let his eyes roam across the bookshelves, committing to memory each of Furuyatsuki’s astonishing collection. It went without saying that this assemblage constituted the entirety of spiritual life within Kuroshikan, yet it was not impossible that somewhere in this archive lurked the very root of those unfathomable, mysterious incidents. Hōsui traced the spine lettering with swift precision and, for a time, became immersed in the stifling aroma of paper and leather.

First, the thirty-volume 1676 Strasbourg edition of Pliny’s *Natural History* and its counterpart, the *Leiden Documents*—an ancient encyclopedia—elicited an exclamation from Hōsui. Next came Soranus’s *The Messenger God’s Staff*, followed by medieval medical texts by Ulbridge, Roslin, and Londley; alchemical pharmacopeias employing symbolic language by Barko, Arnau, and Agrippa; in Japan, annotated editions of Dutch medical texts by Nagata Chisokusai, Sugita Genpaku, and Nanyōhara; and from ancient China, bedchamber arts and medical manuals such as the Sui dynasty’s *Bibliographic Treatise*, *Jade Chamber Essentials*, *Toad Canon*, and *Classic of Immortality*. In addition, Brahmin medical texts such as Susrta and Charaka Samhita, and Aufrecht’s Sanskrit original of the *Kama Sutra*. Then, ranging from the famously limited 1920s publication *Outline of Vivisection* to categories such as Hartmann’s *Symptomatology of Cerebellar Disorders*, it was a veritable cascade of medical historical volumes—truly an array reaching some fifteen hundred books. Next, the works pertaining to mystical religions also formed a considerable collection. ...the first edition of the *Kujaku-ōju-kyō* (Peacock King Mantra Sutra) from the London Asiatic Society; the *Atonōchi-kyō* (Sutra of Atonement) published by imperial decree in Siam; Bloomfield’s *Kokuyashu Vedā* (Black Night Jewel Veda); and Sanskrit esoteric sutras by Schlagintweit, Childers, and others. Moreover, among the Jewish non-canonical scriptures, apocrypha, and evangelical texts, what particularly caught Hōsui’s eye were Froberger’s original score of *Lamentation on the Death of Ferdinand IV*—a rare volume of synagogue music—and Vesalio’s *Divine-Human Conjugations*, a scarce manuscript said to have been smuggled out of Saint Blaise Monastery, both of which had secretly crossed oceans to find their place in Furuyatsuki’s archive. Then, from Reitzenstein’s monumental *Mystery Religions* to De Rougé’s *Funerary Rites*. Also, Baopuzi’s “Xialan Chapter” Fei Changfang’s *Record of the Three Treasures Through the Ages* Texts related to the *Laozi Huahu Jing* and other mystical scriptures on immortal arts could also be seen. However, among the books on magic, there were over seventy volumes including Kiesewetter’s *Sphinx* and Archbishop Werner’s *Ingelheim Sorcery*, but most were scholarly works like Hild’s *Studies on the Devil*, and it was thought that the essential ones had been lost in Sanzō’s book burning. Furthermore, within the psychological category were numerous treatises on criminology, abnormal psychology, and parapsychology. Beyond works like Corucci’s *Records of Simulated Madness*, Liebermann’s *Language of the Psychotic*, and Pattini’s *Waxy Flexibility* in abnormal psychology, there were criminological texts such as Francis’s *Encyclopedia of Death*, Schrenck-Notzing’s *Studies in Criminal Psychology and Psychopathology*, Guarino’s *Napoleonic Physiognomy*, Carrière’s *Research on Obsession and Homicidal-Suicidal Impulses*, Krafft-Ebing’s *Textbook of Forensic Psychiatry*, and Borden’s *Psychology of Moral Imbecility*. Furthermore, in parapsychology, Myers’ magnum opus *Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death* Savage’s *Is Telepathy Possible?* Gelling’s *Hypnotic Suggestion* Starke’s curious tome *Theory of Soul Reproduction*—all forming part of this vast compilation. And when he had passed through the sections of medicine, mystical religions, and psychology, and stood before the shelves of ancient philology, his eyes shifted to such works as the original manuscript of the Finnish epic *Kanteletar*, the Brahmin musical treatise *Sangīta Ratnākara*, the *Gudrúnar kvæði* (Poems of Gudrún), and Saxo Grammaticus’s *History of Denmark*. Chinako finally appeared, carrying the original score of the requiem. The score had discolored to a burnt umber, making Queen Anne’s watermark stand out in contrast, while the lyrics had become nearly illegible.

Hōsui took it in hand and promptly cast his eyes upon the final page, but—

“Ah, it’s written in ancient vocal notation symbols,” he muttered, then carelessly tossed it onto the side table. Then he said to Chinako. “By the way, Ms. Kuga—are you aware of why a mute symbol was added to this section?” “I have no idea whatsoever.” Chinako laughed sarcastically. “Does ‘con sordino’ mean anything other than ‘attach a mute’—?” “Or perhaps ‘Hom Fuge’ (Son of Man, flee!)?”

Hōsui, undaunted by Chinako’s scathing ridicule, spoke with renewed vigor. “No, rather ‘Behold this person—’ is the correct reading.” “This is saying, ‘Behold Wagner’s *Parsifal*—’ you see.” “*Parsifal*⁉” Chinako was taken aback by Hōsui’s bizarre statement, but he did not revisit the matter and instead posed a different question. “Then, I have another request—if you happen to have Lesser’s *On the Results of Postmortem Mechanical Violence*…”

“I believe it was probably there,” Chinako said after a moment’s thought. “If you’re in a hurry, I could have you search through the miscellaneous books meant for binding over there.”

When he lifted the hidden door on the right that Chinako had indicated, inside lay a bookshelf crammed carelessly with volumes needing rebinding, arranged solely in ABC order. Hōsui began meticulously examining the U section from the start. Then, just as a vital flush seemed to suffuse his features, he declared “This is it,” extracting a modest black cloth-bound tome. Behold—did not an unnatural brilliance now radiate from Hōsui’s eyes? What revelations might this insignificant volume possibly hold⁉ Yet when he opened the cover, shock flashed across his countenance with startling abruptness. Then—involuntarily—he let the book clatter to the floorboards.

“What’s wrong?” Prosecutor Shikura exclaimed in surprise and pressed closer. “Indeed, only the cover is Lesser’s masterpiece,” Hōsui bit his lower lip hard, though the tremor in his voice had not subsided. “However, the contents are Molière’s *Tartuffe*. “Look here—in Daumier’s frontispiece, isn’t that villainous priest sneering?”

“Ah—there’s a key!” At that moment, Kumajirō let out a piercing cry. When he picked up the volume from the floor, he had noticed a metal object shaped like a halberd blade glimmering from what seemed to be near the middle of its contents. Taking it out, they found a small ring-shaped tag dangling from it, on which was written “Pharmacy.” “Tartuffe and the lost pharmacy key…” Hōsui muttered hollowly, then turned to Kumajirō. “But never mind this tag’s meaning—what do you make of the culprit’s theatrical flair?”

Kumajirō, finding no outlet for his indignation but Hōsui, snapped venomously. “But I’d say the real actors are on *our* side. From the very start, we’ve been laughed at without even getting paid.” “How could this be mere talk of some lecherous archbishop?” Prosecutor Shikura tossed off this light admonishment toward Kumajirō, yet it inadvertently drew forth a conclusion so chilling it made one shudder. “In truth, it’s precisely what one might call Lord Quadar’s *Macbeth*—the four witches’ incantations—isn’t it? If he isn’t some apparition, there’s no way he could’ve hidden what you’ve pinpointed before you even identified it, Hōsui.”

“Hmm, a truly satisfying defeat.” “Actually, I’m the one squirming with shame here.” Hōsui, for some reason, cast his eyes downward and adopted a nervous tone. “Earlier, I stated that in the pharmacy where the key was lost, there was a means to measure the culprit.” “Also, in trying to resolve the doubts that arose regarding Ekisuke’s cause of death, I came across Lesser’s work.” “However, as a result, the scales of reason tipped backward—instead, we’ve been placed on the balance pan prepared by the culprit.” “Yet considering how they’ve kept their mocking faces hidden like this, it’s possible those writings don’t actually contain the essential descriptions I envisioned.” “In any case, Ekisuke’s murder too had been woven into the plan from the very beginning.” “How could those contradictions in his cause of death possibly be coincidental?”

Hōsui did not disclose his reason for examining Lesser’s writings, but it was certain that—to their dismay—the path they had taken to reach that point had indeed been treading along the criminal’s nerve fibers. Moreover, here it became clear that the criminal’s act of casting down the gauntlet—along with their inhumanity surpassing all imagination—could be sufficiently corroborated by this single fact alone.

Eventually, upon returning to the old library, Hōsui did not speak openly about the incident in the unsorted storage room and instead questioned Chinako.

“At last, the wave of the incident has reached this library,” Hōsui began. “Do you recall anyone who recently used this hidden door?” “Oh, is that all?” Chinako replied airily. “Then I suppose I must say it was only Mrs. Dannenberg these past ten days or so—” Her answer came so abruptly it could only be deliberate deception. “She seemed intent on uncovering something, judging by how thoroughly she combed through this unsorted storage room.”

“What about last night?” Inspector Kumajirō said in a voice thick with impatience. “Unfortunately, I was so preoccupied attending to Mrs. Dannenberg that I carelessly neglected to lock the library,” she replied offhandedly, then sent a sarcastic smile Hōsui’s way. “In that case, I would like to present you with the Philosopher’s Stone—how does Knipper’s *Physiological Graphology* strike you?” “No, what I truly desire is Marlowe’s *The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus*,” Hōsui declared. The title alone sufficed to deflect the sneers of one ignorant of the spell’s essence. He then stated his intent to borrow additional works: Roskoff’s *Study of the Volksbuch* (reputed as the original Faust legend), Barth’s *On Hysterical Sleep States*, and Woods’ *Royal Heredity*—before exiting the library. And with the key now in their possession, they proceeded to investigate the drug storage room next.

The next drug storage room was located upstairs on the backyard side. Originally intended to be Dr. Sanzō’s laboratory, it stood sandwiched between an empty room and connected on the right to the chamber where the Divine Inquisition had been conducted. Yet there lingered only the pervasive stench characteristic of such pharmaceutical spaces; unverifiable slipper marks crisscrossed the floor’s surface, with not so much as a displaced sleeve’s imprint remaining. Thus their sole remaining task became examining over a dozen rows of medicine shelves and baskets, scrutinizing traces of moved bottles and reductions in their contents. Paradoxically, however, layers of dust accumulated over what must have been at least five minutes instead aided their investigative progress. The first thing that caught their eye was a potassium cyanide bottle with its stopper removed.

“Hmm, right. Next…” Hōsui methodically recorded each item, but upon hearing the three drug names listed next, his eyes flickered unnaturally as a skeptical look washed over his face. “Because magnesium sulfate, iodoform, and chloral hydrate are all utterly commonplace drugs, aren’t they?” Prosecutor Shikura tilted his head in puzzlement and murmured. “A laxative—since laxative salt is refined magnesium sulfate—a disinfectant, and a sleeping drug.” “What could the culprit possibly mean to accomplish with these three?”

“No, they must have discarded it immediately. However, it was we who were made to swallow it,” said Hōsui, who here again attempted to wield what he liked to call his “tragic preparations”—those peculiar phrases he favored. “What?! Us?!” Inspector Kumajirō exclaimed in astonishment.

“Exactly—it’s said that anonymous criticism has a poisonous effect, isn’t it?” Hōsui bit down hard on his lower lip, yet proceeded to voice an observation quite beyond expectation. “Now, first regarding magnesium sulfate—of course, if taken orally, it’s undoubtedly a laxative. However, if mixed with morphine and administered rectally, it induces a euphoric twilight sleep.” “Next, iodoform can cause somnolent poisoning.” “Then, when it comes to chloral hydrate, even in cases of abnormal excitement where other drugs couldn’t possibly induce sleep, it can induce a coma in the blink of an eye.” “Therefore, it’s far from necessary for new victims.” "It’s entirely nothing more than a product of the culprit’s penchant for mockery." “In other words, these three things are satirizing our exhausted state.”

Invisible specters had crawled into this room as well and, true to form, were sticking out their yellow tongues, pointing sideways, and sneering. However, although the investigation continued as it was, in the end, the findings were limited to just two. The first was evidence that the large bottle of litharge (lead oxide) had been opened, and the other was that the secret of the deceased had once again come to light. The reason for this was that they had nearly overlooked it, but on the side of a deeply recessed empty bottle, they found a sentence written in Dr. Sanzō’s hand.

He hinted at Digsby’s whereabouts yet departed this world without ever providing clear direction— In short, what Sanzō had been seeking was likely some kind of pharmaceutical. However, rather than determining what it was, Hōsui found his interest drawn instead to the empty bottle that seemed at this juncture to hold no significance whatsoever—something that stirred in him an infinite sense of mystery. It was a poem woven from desolate time. This glass vessel, devoid of content, had spent decades in vain anticipation yet still remained unfilled. In other words, there was felt to be something akin to a struggle between Dr. Sanzō and Digsby. Moreover, the culprit’s will that had acted upon an ointment base such as lead oxide could only remain a mystery in this case. In any event, these two findings had yielded crucial implications touching both hidden and manifest aspects of the case—yet Hōsui and his two companions were compelled to leave the drug storage room, leaving the matter unresolved for the future.

Next, they proceeded to investigate the room where the Divine Inquisition had been conducted the previous night—an unusually plain space in this mansion, undoubtedly originally designed as Dr. Sanzō’s laboratory. The room had disproportionately few windows for its size, its lead-lined walls enclosing a concrete floor where a cheap carpet lay spread, evidently used only for last night’s gathering. On the garden-facing side stood a single window, while high on the left corner wall gaped nothing but a solitary round ventilation hole. Black drapery shrouding every wall deepened the innate gloom into murky dimness, saturating the air with an immovable oppressive weight. It seemed the terrifying vision lingered still—faint traces of light haunting corners where corpse candles had once burned on each shriveled finger of the mummified Hand of Glory, their lazy sputters kindling that grotesque spectacle. After surveying the chamber, Hōsui moved leftward to an adjacent vacant room. This was the space with the projecting eave where Ekisuke claimed to have glimpsed a figure during last night’s Inquisition. Nearly identical in dimensions and structure to its neighbor save for four windows that bathed it in relative brightness. Its floor lay covered in coarse canvas-like material beneath towering piles of disused furniture blanketed in white dust. Hōsui’s attention fixed on the water faucet beside the door, from whose spout dangled three or four earthworm-thin icicles—evidence someone had left it running overnight. This detail merely corroborated Kamiya Nobuko’s account of fetching water when Mrs. Dannenberg collapsed.

“Anyway, the problem lies with this projecting eave,” muttered Inspector Kumajirō sullenly, standing by the window at the far right. Outside stretched an old-fashioned wrought-iron railing adorned with an Arabesque pattern of acanthus leaves. Beyond lay the backyard’s flower and vegetable gardens, separated by a vast expanse from the distant hedge of symbolic trees—trimmed with elegant precision. The sky hung dark and turbid, pressing so low upon the tower turret that its hem retained only a pale, waxy afterglow, while darkness already loomed above the hedge. At intervals, a whirring wind creaked through the void, making the armor-plated door sway desolately as one or two snowflakes crumbled upon the ledge.

“However, the specters aren’t limited to Sanzō alone,” responded Prosecutor Shikura. “Another must have joined their ranks. But that man Digsby isn’t much of anything. “Likely that bastard’s just some manner of goblin or specter, I tell you.”

“Why, he’s a great demon spirit,” Hōsui uttered unexpectedly. “That mute symbol is imbued with a terrifyingly potent force born of medieval superstition.”

For the two who lacked knowledge of musical scores, there was nothing to do but wait for Hōsui to elucidate. Hōsui took a deep breath of smoke and said. “Of course, with *Con Sordino* it doesn’t make sense, but there is one exception.” “The reason is that it’s *Parsifal*—the one I used to fluster Chinako earlier.” “In that music drama, Wagner uses the symbol ‘+’ as the mute mark for the French horn.” “However, this symbol not only represents the coffin cross but also signifies, in numerological astrology, the zodiacal conjunction of three planets,” said Hōsui, pressing three dots at the three corners of the symbol he had traced on his palm with his finger—positions that formed a perfect “+”.

“So then, where exactly is this coffin cross located?” When Prosecutor Shikura pressed him, Hōsui’s expression turned briefly ghastly as he tilted his ear toward the window in a listening gesture.

“Can’t you hear it? That—” “When the wind lulls, I can hear the clapper touching the bell.” “Ah, I see.” Though he said this, Inspector Kumajirō felt a chill creep down his spine and could not help but doubt his own rational faculties. Amidst the rustling clamor of leaves mingled a faint, clear sound—like a triangular prism being lightly struck—that unmistakably resonated from the far right end of the backyard, an area surrounded by horse chestnut trees where nothing should have existed. Yet this was neither some neurological aberration nor, of course, could it possibly be the work of sinister miasmas. Hōsui already knew the burial vault’s location.

“Earlier, through the window, I saw two thick beech pillars, so I knew that was the Coffin Gate.” “When Mrs. Dannenberg’s coffin comes to rest beneath it, the bell overhead will toll.” “However, before that, I must visit that burial vault for another reason. Because what was that + symbol—what Digsby had to imply even at the cost of disregarding musical composition?” “To ascertain that, I believe there is no other way than through that burial vault and the zodiac of the bell tower.”

By the time they reached the backyard, the snow had grown somewhat heavier, forcing them to hurry through the footprint investigation. First, Hōsui stood at the convergence point of two sets of footprints approaching from left and right, then began tracing the leftward trail. This spot lay directly beneath the projecting eave where the specter had reportedly moved, yet another striking detail lingered nearby. Traces indicated someone had recently burned dead grass across the entire area. The charred earth had turned thoroughly muddy from overnight rain, its surface reflecting the central projecting eave in a silver saddle shape. Moreover, unburnt remnants remained scattered across the scorched ground in yellow patches resembling decomposed skin from a burnt corpse—a sight that struck one as eerily uncanny.

Now, to elaborate on those two sets of footprints: the one on the left that Hōsui first began tracing was a man’s shoe print approximately twenty centimeters in length, suggesting a person of remarkably short stature. However, observing the impression’s entirely smooth surface—devoid of wart-like protrusions or concentric circles—it was inferred to be rubber long boots intended for specialized use. Tracing them in order led to a Chalet-style (Swiss mountain region, i.e., Alpine-style) cabin—a stylish, block-like structure labeled “Garden Storage”—built closely against the left end of the main building, where the trail began. The other set was approximately twenty-six or twenty-seven centimeters in total length; this one appeared to be of standard size and was the tracks of men’s overshoes. The second set began at an entrance/exit door near the right end of the main building, followed an arc along the outer side of the projecting eave, and reached the scene; however, both had made round trips between their starting points and the location where fragments of the dry plate had fallen.

Hōsui took out a tape measure from his coat pocket and began measuring each shoe impression one by one. As for the overshoes, the stride was only slightly shorter, with no distinctive features to speak of, and was extremely orderly. However, suspicious features had appeared in the impressions. Namely, only the toes and heels—both ends—were deeply indented, exhibiting an inwardly deviated varus shape; what was even more peculiar was that these indentations became progressively shallower toward the center. As for what appeared to be rubber long boots, not only was the stride narrow relative to their size and remarkably uneven, but the center of gravity also seemed to lie on the rear heels, leaving traces where particularly significant force had been applied. Moreover, the overall width of each impression differed slightly from one another. Furthermore, when comparing the toe portion to the central part, they appeared somewhat smaller in terms of balance, giving them a slightly unnatural appearance. Additionally, the impressions in that area were particularly indistinct, with differences in shape most pronounced there. The outbound path followed along the building, but the return path appeared to head straight toward the garden storage shed. After advancing seven or eight steps to the edge of the burnt grass remnants, they left traces of having crossed a narrow strip of it, no more than three shaku in width. However, upon taking the second step from there—as if the building were a giant magnet—their path suddenly bent in a zigzagging manner before veering sideways to graze the building, ultimately retracing the line marked on the outbound path back to the starting point at the garden storage shed. Moreover, for the first step of the return path, they turned their body with their right foot and stepped out with their left; crossing over the burnt grass involved pushing off with the left foot and stepping over with the right. Neither set of shoe prints showed any signs that someone had stepped onto the building. (Refer to the diagram on page 166.)

In all of the nearly fifty shoe prints described above, muddy water that had seeped through surrounding crevices merely pooled at their bases, while the angles of the impressions remained sharply defined. In other words, not even the slightest trace of rain impact was present. This indicated that the shoe prints had been imprinted after 11:30 PM last night, when the rain ceased. Moreover, evidence establishing the sequence between these two types of footprints existed. Specifically, near where the dry plate fragments lay at the convergence point of both trails, a single instance showed the overshoe prints overlapping the others. Therefore, it became clear that the person wearing overshoes had arrived either simultaneously with or after the one presumed to be wearing rubber long boots. Next, Hōsui naturally extended his investigation to the garden storage shed—a Chalet-style, floorless block structure connected to the main building through an interior door. Inside, gardening tools and pest control sprayers lay scattered haphazardly. Beside the door linking to the main building, Hōsui discovered a pair of long boots. These were pure rubber gardening boots with flared tops reaching mid-thigh, their soles containing mud speckled with dry plate particles that glittered like gold dust. Furthermore, it was later confirmed that these gardening long boots belonged to Kawanabe Ekisuke.

Now, dear readers, you must have found various questions arising from these two types of shoe prints, but above all, I believe you have noticed one astonishing contradiction. Moreover, even when deducing from the temporal relationship between the shoe prints themselves, what deeds were performed by these two individuals during the sinister hour of midnight—it is undoubtedly impossible to glimpse even a shadow of it. Needless to say, even Hōsui had not only failed to reconstruct the original events but also found himself utterly unable to voice even a single word of doubt regarding this tangled web of mystery. However, it seemed something had flashed in Hōsui’s mind, for after ordering the forensic technicians to create casts of the shoe prints, he requested that plainclothes officers conduct the investigations outlined in the following items.

1. When was the nearby dead grass burned? 2. Investigation of the icicles attached to all armored doors on the backyard side.

1. Regarding the night watchman: Gather testimony about circumstances in the backyard after 11:30 PM last night. Not long after, reddish pinpricks of light began moving through the darkness—Hōsui and his companions had borrowed net-covered lanterns to visit the burial vault behind the vegetable garden. By then the snow fell in earnest, and the gale wailed through the turret like a bamboo flute. When whirlwinds came roaring down, snowflakes slammed against the ground only to rise again, veiling their already feeble lantern light. Soon an oak grove appeared—trees locked in grim struggle with elemental forces—and between them stood two pillars of the Coffin Gate. As they approached, a metallic creak echoed from the latticework above—the sound of a rusted bell-ring suspended by its corroded ring—while the clapper struck its vibrationless bronze with the desolate shriek of a deranged bird. The graveyard began there, its gravel path terminating at Digsby’s burial vault.

The burial vault’s perimeter was surrounded by an iron fence adorned with relief carvings of the Twelve Apostles’ symbolic beasts—John with an eagle, Luke with a winged calf—while at its center lay what could only be described as a colossal stone sarcophagus. Now came the necessity to detail the burial vault’s interior. Though modeled after open-air burial niches still extant in places like Saint Gall Abbey—a sixth-century monastery built by Irish monks on Switzerland’s Lake Constance—and Pembroke Abbey in South Wales, this structure bore strikingly distinctive features. For instead of typical cemetery trees like mountain ash or loquat, seven species stood arranged in positions shown in a separate diagram: fig, cypress, walnut, silk tree, Japanese aucuba, almond, and privet. As for the central burial niche encircled by these trees—one might disregard for now the yakken stone base carved with a relief of a weeping Umbrian scholar—but when considering the white marble coffin lid resting atop it, a grotesque conception first revealed itself. Traditionally such lids bore coats of arms, human figures, or simple crosses; here however, carved in relief was the triangular harp emblem of the musically renowned Furuyatsuki clan, surmounted by a wrought-iron Greek cross and crucified Christ. And this Christ proved equally aberrant—head tilted leftward, fingers twisted upward in reverse contortion, toes arched inward as if enduring agony… Ribs showing translucent through marble like an anemic specter… While all bore resemblance to funerary art of the vault’s era, they more evoked the arched rigidity of hysterical convulsions—overwhelmingly psychopathological in effect.

After completing his observations, Hōsui turned to Prosecutor Shukura with feverish eyes.

“Hey, Shikura—Campbell says even severe aphasia patients retain their ability to curse until the very end, doesn’t he? When all human strength is spent and the will to retaliate lost, they say nothing but spiritualism can soothe such passions. This is clearly a curse. Above all, Digsby was a man of fearsome repute. Traces of the Baldas demon cult still linger—they say some still indulge in pagan tastes like that Muiyadaha-style cross… Well, he was Welsh-born after all.”

“What on earth are you getting at?” Prosecutor Shikura shouted, his voice creeping with unease. “Actually, Shikura, this burial niche is no ordinary thing. “In the wilderness of Bozra—south of the Dead Sea—it is said hyenas guard it by day, and at night summon demonic gods to descend—it’s the mark of a spectral assembly.” Hōsui brushed snow from his eyelashes with a sideways swipe as he spoke. “But since I’m neither a Jew nor a Levite—the priestly tribe in Judaism—you see. “Even if one gazes upon the mark of a spectral assembly before them, I don’t believe there’s any obligation to destroy it like Moses would.”

“So then,” Kumajirō blurted out. “What about your interpretation of the mute symbol earlier?” “You see, Kumajirō, my estimation was indeed correct,” Hōsui began his explanation prompted by the + symbol. “The conjunction of the three planets I predicted is indeed implied here.” “First, look at the arrangement of the cemetery trees.” “In post-Albionaut astrology, the foremost cypress and fig tree are said to be under the governance of Saturn and Jupiter, while the silk tree at the center on the opposite side serves as the symbol of Mars.” “Though they can also be represented through flora like Datura, cornflower, and wormwood... when we ask what meaning lies in this conjunction of three outer planets, in the black magic astrology of Mollenweide and others, it has become an omen of unnatural death.” “Now, do you all know of the 11th-century German Nix Cult—a demon-worshipping sect that venerated the Nixy, a water spirit of Lake Mummel said to despise Christians?” “It is said that a group of poisoners belonging to that demon cult represented the conjunction of those three planets with three herbs—valerian, poison hemlock, and bittersweet nightshade—hanging them beneath eaves to secretly hint at the location of poisons.” “It is said that in later ages, they were replaced with the leaves of three trees—but now, what could intersect with the triangle formed by those three trees?”

(Note) 1. Valerian (Valeriana officinalis). A medicinal plant of the Valerianaceae family, particularly effective against epilepsy and hysterical convulsions, and thus regarded as a symbol of Jupiter—the planet known as the scholar’s star. 2. Poison Hemlock. A poisonous plant of the Apiaceae family containing large amounts of coniine; as it initially paralyzes the motor nerves, it is regarded as a symbol of Saturn—referred to as the sorcerer’s star. 3. Bittersweet nightshade (Solanum dulcamara). A poisonous plant of the nightshade family bearing the same name; since its leaves particularly contain solanine and dulcamarine, it causes a burning sensation while simultaneously paralyzing the central nervous system, and is thus regarded as a symbol of Mars.

The reddish-black light of the net lantern swayed the shadows of the thinly snow-covered holy statue horizontally and vertically, imparting an indescribably eerie vitality. Moreover, the light grotesquely enlarged Hōsui’s nostrils and mouth, crafting a visage that seemed to embody the very spirit of medieval paganism. However, Kumajirō voiced his doubts.

"But with four trees—walnut, almond, Japanese aucuba, and privet—they end up forming a square."

“No, that’s a fish,” Hōsui blurted out. “The great Egyptian astrologer Nectanebus represented Pisces—which heralds the annual flooding of the Nile—with the symbol ‘denashi ni’.” “The reason is that the square you mentioned is the so-called Great Square of Pegasus, formed by connecting Alpheratz of Andromeda to the two outer saddle stars of Pegasus, thereby creating a perfect quadrilateral.” “And if this relief carving of the triangular harp represents Triangulum, then wouldn’t the sacred image at its center be Pisces, situated between Pegasus and Triangulum?” “Incidentally, this phenomenon also occurred in 1524—so prominently that the renowned astrologer-mathematician Stöffler was said to have extolled his re-flood theory. In any case, this celestial event where three outer planets conjoin with Pisces has long been regarded as an omen of catastrophic calamity.” “But isn’t attempting to artificially create calamity itself a form of curse?” “Anyway, look at this.” “Actually, when I was in the library earlier, I noticed an unfamiliar bookplate stamped on McDonnell’s Sanskrit-English dictionary.” “However, now that I think about it, since that appears to be Digsby’s mark, I can only conclude that this burial niche too must speak volumes about that man’s peculiar tastes and morbid character.”

When Hōsui brushed away the snow surrounding the holy statue, the pitiful full figure that had emerged from the wrought-iron cross began to undergo a strange transformation before their eyes. It was such a bizarre symbol—one so utterly alien to the human world that one might even suspect he had wielded magic to create it. This was because the entire form of the crucified figure—from head to fingertips—had been left stark white. However, Hōsui quietly began explaining the mysterious symbol that had transformed from the holy statue.

“Hey, Shikura, doesn’t Baudelaire say black magic is the hyphen connecting paganism and Christianity? This is precisely the Sanskrit ‘no’ character used in subjugation mantras. Moreover, this shape resembling a triangular harp represents the essential firewood arrangement for the black triangular furnace of curse suppression.” Hōsui’s finger traced the air as he continued, “Childers’ *The Sorcerer-Monk* interprets the *Amoghapāśa-kalparāja-dhāraṇī-sūtra*—according to it, the character *ha* signifies vajra fire that summons Agni to the ritual altar.” He leaned closer, the lantern light deepening his features. “Place that character fragment beneath firewood stacked in *ha* formation, ignite it while chanting the Byakuya Juvēda incantation, and Bishamonten’s Four Great Demon Generals from the *Mahābhārata*—the Gandharva Blade Commander, Nāga Legion, Kumbhāṇḍa Chancellor, and Northern Yaksha General—will slip free from his command. Even Rāvaṇa of the *Rāmāyaṇa*, shaking his ten heads, would manifest as Malevolent Fire Deity.” Hōsui straightened, snow dusting his shoulders. “Were I an esoteric Buddhist scholar, I’d conclude invisible ritual fires burn nightly here, their dark winds haunting Kuroshikan’s towers.” His voice turned clinical. “But I can only parse this as spiritual conjecture—a testament to Digsby’s arcane obsessions.” Turning abruptly to Kumajirō, he added, “That’s why I stopped reading occult texts after Lodge’s *Raymond*. Burned every copy of *Occult Review* years ago.”

Finally, Hōsui exhibited the true skill of an ironclad materialist.

But anything that brushed against his nerves—taut as violin strings—would instantly bloom into petals of deduction, unfurling right then and there. From just a single mute symbol, he had laid bare the astonishing psyche of the late Claude Digsby—a countenance unknown even to the mansion’s own inhabitants. Then, Hōsui and the others exited the cemetery and proceeded toward the main building through the blizzard. Thus, the investigation continued into the night, until at last they came to confront the three foreign musicians said to form the mystical core of Kuroshikan.

III. Fool! Münsterberch!

When the group returned to the former room, Hōsui immediately ordered Shinsai to be summoned. Before long, the old man with atrophied legs came driving up in a four-wheeled vehicle, but all his former vitality had vanished; his face was swollen a muddy color from the torment he had just endured, and he appeared so emaciated that he might as well have been a different person. This old historian’s fingers trembled nervously, his face was tinged with an indefinable gloom, and he clearly revealed his dread of being summoned for interrogation once more. Despite having imposed cruel physiological torture himself, Hōsui hypocritically inquired after his condition before launching into his questions.

“Actually, Mr. Tagō, there’s something I’ve wanted to know since before this incident occurred. What I mean is—this concerns the four foreigners beginning with the murdered Mrs. Dannenberg—why exactly did Dr. Sanzō have to raise them from early childhood?” “If that’s all you need to know,” Shinsai replied, his face relaxing in relief, but unlike before, he began to speak candidly. “This mansion would not be called a haunted house by the world. You may already be aware of this, but those four individuals were sent here from Dr. Sanzō’s friends in their respective home countries when they were still in their infancy—not even weaned yet. However, for over forty years since arriving in Japan, they were indeed nurtured with fine clothes, sumptuous meals, and a high-level education, so in appearance alone, one could well call it life at court. But to me, rather than calling it that, I must say it feels more apt to call it a prison surrounded by such noble walls. It was precisely like the steward of Bishop Theodoric in *Heimskringla*—the ancient Norwegian kings’ chronicle said to be created by Odin himself. Just as Old Zaexu spent his entire life calculating daily tax payments in that era, those four individuals too were never permitted even a single step outside these premises. Yet, long-standing customs are a fearsome thing; rather, for the individuals themselves, a strong tendency to shun interaction with others—one might call it misanthropy—has grown increasingly pronounced. Even at their annual concert, they would merely acknowledge the invited critics with a bow from the stage, and once the performance ended, they would promptly retreat to their rooms. Therefore, the question of why those individuals had to be brought to this mansion in their infancy and spend their days until the onset of old age within an iron cage is now nothing more than a bygone tale. Leaving behind only those records, Dr. Sanzō has taken the identical secrets to his grave.”

“Ah, something straight out of Loeb…” Hōsui sighed with a clownish affectation. “At this moment, you’re likening their misanthropy to plant tropism. However, that’s probably the tragedy of the unit.”

“Unit?” “Of course, as a quartet, they formed a single unit,” Shinsai replied, oblivious to the deeper implications of Hōsui’s choice of terminology. “Have you met those distinguished individuals yourself?” “They are all rigorous Stoics.” “Even allowing for arrogance or cruelty, one cannot imagine such exquisitely cultivated personalities desiring anything beyond pure solitude.” “Thus in daily life, they maintained no particular intimacy among themselves—despite living in close quarters since youth, no romantic affairs ever occurred.” “This stems partly from their mutual disinterest in closeness, but I must emphasize that emotional clashes were never witnessed—not within their group, nor even toward outsiders like us.” “Ultimately, if we speak of whom those four cherished most... it would still be Dr. Sanzō.”

“I see… with the Doctor…” Hōsui momentarily adopted a look of surprise, then exhaled smoke like a ribbon and quoted Baudelaire. “Then, would that relationship be what one might call my beloved demon king?”

“That’s correct. “Verily, I shall praise thee—” Shinsai showed faint agitation but responded in kind with a couplet of equal measure.

“However, in certain cases—” Hōsui adopted a contemplative expression and began, “dandies and sycophants jostling together—” but abruptly abandoned Pope’s *The Rape of the Lock* and instead recited the soliloquy from *The Murder of Gonzago* (the play-within-a-play from *Hamlet*). “In any case, thou art the foul liquid of grasses plucked in midnight’s darkness—so it must be.” “No, not at all,” Hōsui shook his head and responded with the next line: “Thrice withered by demonic curses, steeped in venomous miasma—yet never—” but his intonation was bizarre, nearly devoid of rhythm. Not only that, but for some reason he repeated it in a fluster—which instead turned Shinsai pale. Hōsui continued,

“By the way, Mr. Tagō—it’s possible I’m hallucinating—but I sense a passage in this case where ‘the gates of heaven stand barred fast’.” Hōsui wove the character for “gate” into a line from Milton’s *Paradise Lost* depicting Lucifer’s expulsion. “Yet as you see,” Shinsai answered with forced composure, his manner stiffening unnaturally, “there exists no hidden door, no liftable hatch, no secret stairway.” “Thus we may be certain—they shall never open again.”

“Bwahahaha! No—if anything, my imagination’s running so wild I might start believing a man could get himself pregnant—or so it may seem!” Hōsui erupted in booming laughter, and with that, the strangely tense atmosphere—which had until then felt charged with something ominous—suddenly dissipated. Shinsai too relaxed into a relieved expression,

“Rather than that, Mr. Hōsui—as for this person, I believed the virgin had turned into a jar and cried out thrice seeking the stopper—or so I thought.” The two onlookers stood dumbstruck by this grotesque poetic exchange, but Inspector Kumajirō shot Hōsui a resentful sidelong glance and inserted a procedural inquiry. “Now, what I wish to inquire about is the concrete circumstances of the inheritance succession.”

“Unfortunately, that remains unclear, I’m afraid.” Shinsai replied with a somber expression. “Of course, one might say this very point casts a shadow over the mansion.” “Dr. Sanzō drafted his will approximately two weeks before passing away and had it stored in the mansion’s main vault.” “Furthermore, both the key and cipher chart were entrusted to Lady Tsutako’s husband, Dr. Oshikane Dōkichi—though it appears certain conditions prevent their unsealing even now.” “Though designated as estate executor, I remain fundamentally powerless in this matter.”

“Then, who are those involved in distributing the inheritance?”

“The strange thing is that four naturalized and registered individuals have been added besides Lord Hatatarō.” “However, though the personnel number only five, when it comes to the contents—whether they know or not—not a soul breathes a single word.”

“I’m utterly astonished,” Prosecutor Shikura exclaimed, throwing down the pencil he had been using to jot down key points. “The fact that it excludes just one blood relative besides Hatatarō...” “But there must be some cause—something like discord—” “Because that doesn’t exist.” “Dr. Sanzō loved Lady Tsutako the most.” “Moreover, that unexpected right must have come as a bolt from the blue to those four individuals.” “In particular, someone like Mr. Levez went so far as to say it might have been a dream.”

“Then, Mr. Tagō, let’s not waste time troubling Dr. Oshikane to come here,” Hōsui said quietly. “Doing so should allow us to perform something of a posthumous psychiatric evaluation of Dr. Sanzō.” “Now please take your leave at once.” “After that, have Mr. Hatatarō come in next.”

When Shinsai left, Hōsui turned toward the prosecutor. “So that settles two of your tasks—issuing a summons to Dr. Oshikane and getting a search warrant from the preliminary judge.” “After all, isn’t unsealing the will the only thing that could melt away our biases in this case?” “In any event, Dr. Oshikane won’t consent easily.”

“By the way, about that poetic exchange you and Shinsai just had—” Inspector Kumajirō blurted out bluntly. “Was that some product of object mysticism?” “No, not at all—such circular nonsense.” Hōsui retorted. “Either I’m making a colossal blunder here, or Jung and Münsterberg have turned out to be complete fools.”

Hōsui obscured his meaning with ambiguous words, but at that moment, a whistling sound came from the corridor. When it ceased, the door opened and Hatatarō appeared. He was only seventeen, yet his demeanor was unnervingly mature—not a trace of the childlike innocence that should linger in anyone on the cusp of adulthood remained. What disrupted the gradation of his alluringly beautiful countenance were his restless eyes and narrow forehead. Hōsui politely offered a chair,

“I consider that ‘Petrushka’ is my favorite among Stravinsky’s works.” “Isn’t it a dreadful philosophy of original sin?” “Even for the doll, an open-mouthed grave awaits, you see.”

At the outset, Hatatarō heard words he had not anticipated in the least, causing his pale, slender body to suddenly appear to stiffen as he began to swallow nervously.

Hōsui continued,

“However, it’s not that when you whistle ‘The Nurse’s Dance,’ Thérèse’s automaton begins to move in response. Moreover, it’s also known that around eleven o’clock last night, you visited Mrs. Dannenberg with Nobuko Kamiya and then immediately entered the bedroom.”

“In that case, what is it you wish to ask?” Hatatarō retorted in a voice thick with defiance, its tone thoroughly altered. “In other words, it’s about the will of Dr. Sanzō that has been imposed upon you all.” “Ah, if it’s about that,” Hatatarō replied with faintly self-mocking excitement tingeing his voice, “I am indeed grateful for the music education he provided, at least.” “On days when he didn’t teach me, I would’ve already gone mad.” “Wouldn’t you agree?” “Weariness, anxiety, doubt, decadence—day in and day out, that’s all there is.” “Who could possibly endure living in such suffocating melancholy among people as antiquated as faded Noh costumes?” “In truth, my father compelled me to leave behind a record of human suffering—it was solely for that purpose that he taught me how to cling to this meager existence.”

“So, does that mean the four naturalized and registered members have taken everything else?” “Perhaps that is indeed the case,” Hatatarō replied in a strangely timid manner. “No, in fact, the reason remains unclear to this day. After all, the wills of Ms. Gretchen and the other three haven’t been factored into it in the slightest. By the way, are you familiar with this epigram from the Queen Anne era? ‘For jurors to partake in the bishop’s supper, a sinner must be hanged’—so the saying goes. Basically, my father was a man like that bishop. To the very depths of his soul, he’s wrapped in secrets and schemes—it’s intolerable.”

“However, Mr. Hatatarō, therein lies this mansion’s malady.” “It will likely be eradicated eventually—but then again, you don’t possess Dr. Sanzō’s psychograph either,” Hōsui admonished to check the other’s deluded conviction, then launched another procedural inquiry. “Now—approximately when did Dr. Sanzō notify you about the household registration matter?”

“That was about two weeks before he committed suicide.” “At that time, the will was created,” he began, “and I had only the portion concerning myself read aloud to me by my father—” But Hatatarō suddenly grew restless. “However, Mr. Hōsui, I don’t have the liberty to disclose that part to you.” “Once spoken, it would mean forfeiting one’s share.” “Moreover, the other four are the same—they too know nothing beyond what concerns themselves.”

“No, not at all,” Hōsui said in a gentle, admonishing tone. “Generally speaking, Japanese civil law is exceedingly lenient on such points.”

“But that won’t do,” Hatatarō declared flatly, his face ashen. “More than anything, I’m terrified of Father’s eyes. Would that Mephistopheles-like figure truly depart without leaving behind some insidious form of retribution? I’m certain Ms.Gretchen was killed precisely because she erred in that regard.” “So you’re calling it retribution?” Inspector Kumajirō interjected sharply.

“That’s correct. “Therefore, you must now fully understand why I cannot speak of it. “Not only that, but first and foremost, without the inheritance, I have no means of sustaining my livelihood,” Hatatarō declared calmly and stood up. And then, aligning his ten slender, gleaming violinist fingers along the edge of the table, he finally spoke in a vehement tone.

“I believe there are no further questions you need to ask, but even so, it’s impossible for me to answer any more than this.” “However, please keep this one thing clearly in mind.” “The people of the mansion often call the Thérèse automaton an evil spirit, but to me, it seems that it’s my father who fits that description.” “No, Father should most certainly still be alive within this mansion.”

Hatatarō had only superficially touched upon the contents of the will; following Chinako once again, he proceeded to emphasize the pathological psychology unique to the residents of Kuroshikan. Having finished his statement, he gave a desolate bow and walked toward the doorway. Yet blocking his path, something uncanny lay in wait. For when he reached the doorway, he froze as though nailed in place, unable to advance a single step further. This differed from mere fear—an intensely complex emotion manifested through his movements. His left hand remained on the handle while his other arm hung limp, both eyes fixed with eerie intensity as he stared straight ahead. Clearly, he had become aware of some dreadful presence beyond the door. Then Hatatarō's face contorted tautly, revealing an ugly mask of hatred. And he flung forward a voice twisted like spasms.

“M-Madame Krivov... You...”

The moment he said that, the door was pulled open from outside. As the two servants took positions flanking the threshold, Madame Olga Krivov's upper body emerged between them with haughty majesty. She wore a yellow jacket resembling kendo attire with a high marten-fur collar, draped over by a sleeveless velvet surcoat. In her right hand she carried an ornate ceremonial staff engraved with Blind Orion and the Count-Duke of Olivares (1587–1645)—prime minister under Spain's Philip IV—whose family crest crowned its apex. The black-and-gold contrast electrified her red hair, wrapping her entire form in flame-like passion. Her carelessly swept-back locks revealed earlobes jutting at forty-five degrees, their sharpened tips mirroring her severe disposition. A slightly receding hairline framed prominent brow ridges above gray eyes glowing with uncanny depth—their piercing gaze seemed to expose the very nerves of her ocular cavities. The precipitous drop from her cheekbones formed sheer cliffs of angular severity, while her straight nasal bridge—longer than the nostrils beneath—exuded scheming secrecy. As Hatatarō brushed past, he glanced back over his shoulder,

“Madame Olga, please rest assured. Everything is exactly as you’ve heard.”

“I quite understand,” Madame Krivov replied magnanimously with half-closed eyes, adopting an affected gesture. “But Mr. Hatatarō, if by chance *I* were to be summoned first, you should consider what would happen in that case as well. You’re certain to take the same action as the rest of us, no doubt.” Though it felt slightly odd that Madame Krivov had used the plural “we” with us, the reason became clear moments later—for it was not only her standing by the door; Madame Galibarda Serena and Mr. Ottokar Levez appeared in succession. Madame Serena held the leash of a Saint Bernard with a lustrous coat, her stature and countenance presenting a diametrical opposition to Madame Krivov’s in every aspect. She wore a dark green skirt with a bodice edged in cord trim, a white linen collar spreading to her elbows, and atop her head a pure white headdress like those worn by Augustinian nuns. None who saw her elegant figure would ever suspect this woman hailed from Brindisi in Southern Italy—a city Lombroso had identified as a hotbed of passionate crimes. Mr. Levez appeared last, his massive frame clad in a frock coat and gray trousers with a wing-shaped collar—yet unlike when glimpsed from afar in the chapel earlier, his close proximity now revealed an anguished countenance: that of a middle-aged gentleman bearing an intensely gloomy visage, as though harboring some restrained secret within his psyche. The three entered with slow solemnity, like a Eucharistic procession. This spectacle might have evoked eighteenth-century courtly life in Württemberg or Carinthia had long trumpets blared beneath tapestries and kettle drums resounded to heraldic proclamations—yet conversely, their pathological terror manifested in the very number of attending servants. Moreover, considering the repugnant silent struggle that had just transpired between them and Hatatarō, one could not help but sense dark currents swirling through the air—turbid waters suggestive of criminal motive. Yet above all, these three had been beyond evidentiary doubt from the very outset. Before long, Madame Krivov stood before Hōsui, tapped the table with her cane’s tip, and spoke in a commanding voice.

“We have come because there is something we would like you to do.” “What do you mean by that? Anyway, please have a seat.” Hōsui’s slight hesitation stemmed not from her commanding tone. Madame Krivov’s face—which from a distance had seemed to resemble Holbein’s *Portrait of Margaret Wyatt* (sister of Sir Thomas Wyatt, chronicler to Henry VIII)—up close revealed ugly freckles resembling smallpox vaccination scars.

“To tell the truth, we would like you to burn and dispose of the Thérèse doll,” Madame Krivov declared firmly, whereupon Inspector Kumajirō exclaimed in astonishment. “What did you say?” “Just a single doll.” “And why would that be?”

“Well, if it were merely the doll, it would be a lifeless object. In any case, we must take defensive measures. That is to say, we want you to destroy the criminal’s idol. By the way, have you read Levenshtim’s *Superstition and Criminal Code* (Note)?” “Then you are referring to Giuseppe Arzo.”

Until then, Hōsui had worn a deeply pensive expression, but now he interjected for the first time. (Note) This appears in the section detailing crimes of idol worship beginning with King Pygmalion of Cyprus. Giuseppe Arzo, renowned in history alongside the Roman Macneagheus as a hermaphrodite, possessed two statues—one male and one female. When assuming the male role, he would worship the female statue; when assuming the female role, he would worship the male statue. And though he engaged in fraud, theft, and strife, once the male statue was destroyed, his miraculous dual nature is said to have vanished even in physical form.

“Exactly so,” Madame Krivov nodded with a self-satisfied air, then gestured for the other two to take seats before continuing, “I wish to somehow dull the perpetrator’s resolve, if only psychologically. To prevent these successive tragedies, we can no longer afford to wait for your intervention.” Following that, Madame Serena began to speak, but she clasped her hands timidly to her chest and spoke in a rather imploring tone.

“No, this is no mere matter of psychological idolatry. To the culprit, that doll is none other than King Gunther’s hero—Siegfried, who fought Queen Brunhild in his stead in the *Nibelungenlied*. If important crimes continue to be committed, the culprit will surely remain hidden within sinister schemes, and only that Provinzial is certain to reveal themselves. Because, unlike Ekisuke or Ms. Nobuko, we are not defenseless, you know. So even if they were to botch it—if it’s the doll that gets caught—there’s no telling whether another opportunity won’t arise.”

“Indeed, this tragedy will not end until three have bled.”

Mr. Levez made his swollen eyelids quiver and said sorrowfully, “However, an edict has been imposed upon us. Therefore, it is impossible to avert disaster from this mansion.” “As for that edict—might you perhaps allow us to hear it?” interjected the prosecutor pointedly, but Madame Krivov abruptly interrupted him.

“No, we are not at liberty to speak of it.” “Rather than making such futile inquiries—” Her tone suddenly turned vehement, her voice trembling. “Ah, this is how we find ourselves in an abyssal darkness, amidst a sea of flames.” “Why do you watch with eyes wide with curiosity, awaiting a new tragedy?” she cried in an anguished voice, invoking Young’s verse.

Hōsui had been looking alternately at the three of them, but soon he shifted his legs as if leaning forward, and an eerie smile crept onto his lips.

“Indeed, precisely—perpetuity, endlessness,” he suddenly uttered words that seemed almost mad. “As for who imposed such a cruel eternal punishment—it was entirely the late Dr. Sanzō.” “You probably heard what Mr. Hatatarō said, but it is Dr. Sanzō who gazes down with smug delight as you come to call him father.” “Oh... Father?” Madame Serena adjusted her posture and looked at Hōsui anew.

“Precisely. ‘Through sin and calamity’s depths I pierce, the plummet of my cross descends’—so it goes,” Hōsui quoted Whittier with a self-satisfied air, while Madame Krivov’s countenance filled with a sneer. “No, but the abyss of the future is deeper than that cross’s plummet can fathom—I assure you,” she retorted, her cruel expression beginning to twitch spasmodically. “And yet—ah yes—that man will surely die ere long. For in the two incidents involving Ekisuke and Ms. Nobuko, you have already laid bare your helplessness—have you not?”

“I see,” Hōsui nodded tersely, his tone growing increasingly confrontational and caustic. “However, no matter who it may be, it’s already impossible to gauge how much time remains until their final moments. No—on the contrary—last night, for instance... It seemed as though something mysterious peered into that refreshingly cool hideaway... or so I perceived.” “Then what did that person see?” “I haven’t the faintest knowledge of that verse.” When Mr. Levez posed his question in a shadowy, quavering tone, Hōsui smiled with vulpine cunning and—

“However, Mr. Levez—the heart is black and the night is black; the drug takes effect and the hands grow keen—” “And as for that place—if both the timing was right and there were no people around—it was—” The way he began speaking appeared at first glance like an obvious demon mask, yet also seemed to lay bare a thorn-like scheme deliberately concealed beneath the surface. His masterful recitation method created an uncanny atmosphere that made muscles stiffen and blood run cold. Madame Krivov, who until then had been fiddling with the Tudor rose brooch (a six-petaled rose) adorning her chest, placed her hands together on the table and began fixing Hōsui with a challenging stare. Yet the silence between them, pregnant with an indefinable hint of crisis, rendered all the more distinct the roar of the blizzard raging outside, intensifying the desolation. Hōsui finally broke the silence.

“However, the original text also states, ‘when the sun burns so fiercely that sparks are scattered across the field at midday’—yet, strangely enough, it cannot be seen in daylight or bright light. Even at night, it exists in a world that remains invisible unless enveloped in darkness.” “Visible in darkness⁉” Mr. Levez retorted as though he had forgotten his caution.

Hōsui did not answer that and turned toward Madame Krivov, "By the way—do you happen to know whose work that poetic passage is from?" "No, I do not know." Madame Krivov answered somewhat stiffly, but Madame Serena maintained a serene indifference to Hōsui’s uncanny insinuations, "I believe it’s from Gustav Falke’s *Birch Forest*." Hōsui nodded with satisfaction, blowing smoke rings one after another, when suddenly a strangely malicious smirk rose to his lips.

“Precisely. It is *Birch Forest*. Last night, in the corridor outside this room, the culprit must indeed have seen that birch forest. However, he did not dream it—yet could not speak of it... so it goes.”

“Then, you assert that this man returned to the chamber of the dead as if it were a place where loved ones come and go?” Madame Krivov suddenly adopted a buoyant tone and quoted Lenau’s *Autumn’s Heart*. “No—‘sliding away’? How absurd! That bastard staggered off! HAHAHAHA!” Hōsui burst into uproarious laughter while glancing at Mr. Levez. “Now then, Mr. Levez—of course, by that time, the sorrowful traveler had found a companion—so it goes.”

“Y-you knew about that all along!” Madame Krivov could no longer contain herself, standing up and brandishing her cane violently as she shouted. “That is precisely why we implore you to burn that companion to ashes.” However, Hōsui did not answer, instead gazing at the crimson tip of his cigarette as if to imply his disagreement. Yet to Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō beside him, it seemed Hōsui’s ceaselessly rising thoughts—their ascent until now endless—had finally crested here. Still, Hōsui’s efforts showed no sign of abating; in this psychological drama, he pursued nothing less than a tragic dénouement. He shattered the silence and declared in a sharp, challenging tone.

“But Madame Krivov, I cannot believe this mad theatrical production will conclude with merely burning the doll.” “To tell the truth, there exists another puppet being manipulated through even more insidiously nebulous means.” “After all, even Prague’s International Puppeteers’ Alliance has no record of *Faust* being performed recently—or so I should think.” “Faust⁉ Ah—are you referring to the characters on that scrap of paper said to have been written by Ms. Gretchen in her death throes?” Mr. Levez leaned forward with forceful intensity.

“Yes. “The first act featured a water spirit; the second act featured a sylph. Even now, that lovely sylph has just performed an astonishing miracle and fled. Moreover, Mr. Levez, the culprit has transformed into Sylphus as a male. Do you happen to know who that sylph might be?” “What—you think I don’t know⁉ No, let’s both drop the theatrics.” Mr. Levez recoiled as if struck by a counterattack, but at that moment, a shadow of dread suddenly fell over Madame Krivov’s hitherto insolent demeanor. And then—likely on impulse—a voice that did not seem her own was uttered.

“Mr. Hōsui, I saw him. “I definitely saw that man. “I think the one who entered my room last night was probably that sylph.” “What, the sylph?” Inspector Kumajirō’s scowling face suddenly stiffened. “But at that time, the door was locked, wasn’t it?” “Of course it was. “It had mysteriously been opened. “And I saw a tall, slender man standing before the dimly lit door.” Madame Krivov’s voice was abnormally slurred, yet she continued speaking. “It was around eleven o’clock when I entered my bedroom, and I most certainly locked the door. “Then, after dozing lightly and waking up, when I tried to look at the bedside clock—somehow the front of my nightgown seemed fastened at both ends near my chest. I also felt a spasmodic tugging at my hair—my head simply wouldn’t move. “Since I usually sleep with my hair down, when I thought this might mean I had been tied up, a numbness crept from my spine to the very core of my head, leaving me unable to speak or even move. “Then a cold wind rustled up behind me, and faint, gliding footsteps receded into the distance past the hem of my nightgown. “And then, the owner of those footsteps entered my field of vision before the door. “The man turned around.”

“Who was that?” Having said that, Prosecutor Shikura inadvertently held his breath, “No, I couldn’t tell,” Madame Krivov replied with a pained sigh. “The desk lamp’s light didn’t reach that far.” “But I could make out the silhouette.” “He was about five feet four or five inches tall, with a slender, lean build.” And yet, the physique described as ‘only the eyes…’—though differing in appearance—somehow evoked Hatatarō.

“The eyes?!” Inspector Kumajirō interjected almost reflexively with a single word. Thereupon, Madame Krivov abruptly returned to her haughty demeanor,

“I believe there was a story about someone mistaking a Basedow’s disease patient’s eyes in the dark for small spectacles,” she retorted sarcastically, then continued with an attitude of groping through her memories before speaking. “Anyway—those words—I want you to hear them with nerves attuned beyond ordinary senses.” “If pressed to elaborate, I can only say those eyes glowed like pearls.” Then, when his figure vanished beyond the door, the handle slid smoothly and faint footsteps receded toward the left. “And so I finally regained my composure—though my hair had somehow come undone—and for the first time could move my neck freely.” “The time was exactly half past twelve. Afterward, I relocked the door and tied the handle to the wardrobe.” “But once done, sleep became impossible.” “Yet come morning, I found no definite signs of disturbance in the room.” “Putting it all together—it must certainly be that puppeteer.” “That cunning coward couldn’t lay a finger on me once my eyes were open.”

Though it left one major question unresolved in conclusion, Madame Krivov’s quietly murmuring voice had forced the two beside her to grasp at nightmare-like visions. Both Madame Serena and Mr. Levez nervously intertwined their hands, appearing to have lost even the will to speak. Hōsui—as if roused from slumber—hurriedly flicked ash from his tobacco, yet kept his face turned toward Madame Serena.

“Now, Madame Serena—we’ll investigate that wanderer in due course—but do you happen to know this Gottfried? ‘Who could prevent me from merging with the devil this instant—’” “But… that dagger…,” she began to utter the next phrase, but Madame Serena immediately grew flustered, losing the poetic cadence from her very first syllable. “That dagger’s engraving makes my body quake and shudder—but why… Ah, why must you ask such things again?” she cried out, trembling uncontrollably. “You’re searching for him, aren’t you? But how could you possibly know who that man is? No—no—I most certainly do not know.”

Hōsui rolled a cigarette between his lips with an almost cruel smile fixed on his interlocutor— “I’m not fishing for your veiled criticisms.” “That sylph’s little pantomime means nothing to me.” “What matters is this—” His gaze remained locked on Madame Serena as he quoted Dehmel’s *Over the Marshes*. “‘Where dost thou dwell? O thou dark resonance…’”

“Ah, well then, that…” Madame Krivov began in an oddly timid manner. “But you’re aware, aren’t you, that Miss Nobuko mistakenly repeated the morning hymn twice? In truth, this morning she played David’s Psalm Ninety-One—that hymn—once, but after the noon requiem, she was supposed to play ‘Fire and hail, snow and mist…’”

“No, I’m referring to the chapel’s interior,” Hōsui coldly rebuffed. “What I wish to ascertain is this.” “At that time, were there not roses present there—with all birdsong having ceased in the vicinity—?” “Then do you mean the burning of rose frankincense?” Mr. Levez interjected in an unnaturally rigid tone, scrutinizing his counterpart as he— “That was Madame Olga who lit it after halting the performance deep into the latter movement. But let us dispense with this absurd pantomime.” “We require only your decision regarding the automaton’s disposal.”

“Anyway, please let me consider this until tomorrow.” Hōsui declared flatly. “However, ultimately, we are mere machinery for safeguarding human lives.” “As for protection—we won’t allow that sorcerer to lay a finger on anyone.” The instant Hōsui finished speaking, Madame Krivov made her resentment manifest through abrupt gestures, impatiently urging her two companions to rise. Then, glaring down at Hōsui with venomous contempt, she hurled her words in a tone of bitter anguish.

“We have no choice. “After all, you all regard this history of massacres as nothing more than statistical numbers.” “No—in the end, our fate may be no different from that of the Albigensians (Note 1) or the Vetlyanka villagers (Note 2).” “But if countermeasures are possible… oh, if they can be done, then from now on, we will handle it ourselves.” (Note 1) Albigensians—A new religion that arose in Albi, southern France, influenced by Manichaeism. Having rejected all tenets of the New Testament, they became the target of a new crusade spearheaded by Pope Innocent III, resulting in approximately 470,000 deaths from 1209 to 1229. (Note 2) Vetlyanka villagers—During the Black Death’s rampage in Astrakhan under Russian rule in 1878, Vetlyanka County was sealed with artillery-enforced containment lines. Threatened by blank cannon fire and executions, the villagers—unable to escape—perished almost entirely from plague.

(2) Vetlyanka Villagers—During the rampant outbreak of the Black Death in 1878 in Russian-ruled Astrakhan, artillery-equipped blockade lines encircled Vetlyanka District. Intimidated by blank cannon fire and executions by firing squad, the villagers were unable to escape, and nearly all perished from the Black Death.

“Not at all,” Hōsui retorted sarcastically. “But Madame Krivov—if I recall correctly, was it Saint Ambrose?—who said, ‘Death is also advantageous to the wicked.’”

The forgotten Saint Bernard dog trailed after Madame Serena with mournful howls until they were out of sight. As the three departed, a plainclothes officer arrived—having completed the backyard investigation ordered earlier—and handed Hōsui the report. "The armor-piercing dagger remains the sole specimen," he reported. "I delivered it to Dr. Otokone at headquarters as instructed." Hōsui ordered photographs taken of the zodiac window in the spire before dismissing the officer. Kumajirō wore a perplexed expression and sighed faintly.

“Oh, not again with doors and locks. Is the culprit a curse master or a locksmith? Which one is it?” “It’s not as if Dr. John Day’s hidden doors are so commonplace.”

“I’m surprised.” Hōsui cast a sardonic smile. “Where in that thing could there possibly be any creative craftsmanship worth tolerating?” “If one were to take even a single step outside this mansion, that would undoubtedly raise an astonishing question.” “But just now, you should have seen an excellent bibliography on criminal phenomenology in the archive, no?” “In other words, the technique that prevented the door from being locked constitutes part of this mansion’s psychic life.” “Once we return to headquarters, if you just look at Gross (note), everything will become clear.”

(Note) When Hōsui mentioned "Gross," he was referring to an example cited from Appert’s *Secrets of Crime* in the chapter on criminal occupational habits within the *Manual for Examining Magistrates*. A former servant who was a bootmaker and one of the criminals broke into a certain banker’s room and, to prevent the door between that room and the bedroom from being locked, had beforehand inserted into the latch hole a cleverly crafted triangular prism-shaped wooden piece. Because of this, when the banker tried to lock the door before bedtime, the latch would not budge, leading him to mistakenly believe it was already secured. Thus, the criminal’s plan succeeded perfectly.

The fact that Hōsui did not dare to reiterate and instead abandoned it as something inevitable must have been an extraordinary shock to the two who knew his normally analytical nature. Yet ultimately, it could be said that this was the result of him having measured the depth and mystery of this case in the archive. Prosecutor Shikura once again rebuked Hōsui’s dandyish interrogation attitude.

“I’m not Levez, you know. What I want from you now is just theatrics. Let’s put an end to that sort of love-poet-inspired dueling chorus and start examining the ghost of Hatatarō that Madame Krivov obliquely hinted at.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

Hōsui made a clownish yet nonchalant gesture, but his face was now devoid of its usual disillusioned melancholy. “Though my theatrical probing of psychological expressions has ended—that remains a historical conflict—the ones I grappled with aren’t those three. It was Münsterberich. After all, he was a complete moron.”

Just then, Otokone Kōan, forensic medical examiner at the Metropolitan Police Department, entered.

Part Four: Poetry, Armor, and Phantom Modeling

I. To the Ancient Clock Room

Dr. Otokone, who had finished examining Nobuko and entered, was an elderly man well past fifty—lanky and emaciated, with a mantis-like face. His glaring eyes and a baldness that suggested a certain dignity left a striking impression. However, he was the most seasoned expert in the department and had written five or six works on toxicology alone, which naturally made him well-acquainted with Hōsui. He took his seat, brusquely demanded tobacco, and after taking a drag that seemed almost sweet, spoke.

“Now then, Hōsui—my mental-image-mirroring proof method has regrettably concluded perceptual loss.” “Regardless of how the swivel chair was positioned, in the end, just seeing those pale, translucent gums would make me stake my resignation on it.” “I can unequivocally assert that it was indeed a simple fainting spell.” "By the way, there’s something I particularly want to say to you, Inspector Kumajirō—when I heard that woman was gripping the armor-piercing dagger, I felt as though I’d seen the back of a rigged fortune-telling tile." "That fainting spell was truly insidious and nebulous." “Isn’t it all too perfectly aligned?”

“I see,” Hōsui nodded with apparent disappointment, “but let’s hear the details regardless. After all—who knows—your very senility might come leaping out from within them. Now then—your detection method?”

Dr. Otokone stated his findings in an extremely businesslike manner, interlacing his explanation with technical terms here and there. “Of course, there *are* poisons that are rapidly absorbed.” “Moreover, in individuals with specific susceptibility, even strychnine far below the toxic dose can exhibit symptoms resembling flexor tremors or intermittent tetany.” “However, there are no peripheral findings indicative of poisoning, and the stomach contents consist almost entirely of gastric juice—this does strike one as somewhat suspicious.” “However, if that woman died approximately two hours after ingesting easily digestible food, there is nothing at all suspicious about the stomach being empty.” “Furthermore, there are no reactive changes in the urine, nor is there anything that can be quantitatively proven.” “There’s nothing but an excess of phosphates—utterly without purpose.” “That increase—I judge it to be the result of physical and mental fatigue. What do you think?”

“An astute observation.” “Had it not been for that violent fatigue, I might have abandoned my observation of Nobuko altogether.” Hōsui insinuated something while affirming his counterpart’s theory. “By the way—were the reagents you applied limited to just those?”

“Don’t be absurd. Though it ultimately proved futile, I attempted a gynecological examination of Nobuko based on her state of exhaustion. Hōsui-kun, tonight’s forensic significance reduces to one thing: Pennyroyal—a toxic herb. When administered in that approximate dosage to a healthy non-gravid uterus, violent uterine paralysis occurs within about one hour post-ingestion. Nearly instantaneous pseudo-syncope symptoms manifest thereafter. Yet not even its active component—Oleum Hedeomae Apiol—was detected. Of course, that woman shows neither history of gynecological surgery nor signs of organ-specific toxic susceptibility. So Hōsui-kun, while my toxicological compendium amounts only to this, allow me this concluding observation: the juridical significance of that syncope lies not in forensics, but rather in moral sentiment. In short—premeditated or spontaneous?” Dr. Otokone thumped the table to emphasize his findings.

“No, sheer psychopathology.” Hōsui replied with a grim expression. “By the way, did you examine the cervical vertebrae? I’m no Quincke, but ‘terror and fainting stem from cervical vertebrae pain’—now that’s an astute maxim.” Dr. Otokone clenched the tip of his tobacco between his teeth, his face instead betraying surprise. “Well, even *I* have read Yanleg’s *On Pathological Impulsive Acts* and Janet’s *The Field of Experimental Touch*, you know.” “Indeed, when pressure exists on the fourth cervical vertebra and one takes an impulsive breath, spasmodic contractions occur in the diaphragm.” “But wait—” “The crucial hunchback in question isn’t that woman.” “Before that, wasn’t a kyphosis patient already murdered?”

“But you see,” Hōsui said in a panting voice, “it’s by no means a definitive conclusion. If one considers the position of the swivel chair and the mysterious overtone performance, it’s probably not even worth a second thought. But as one hypothesis, I have considered *hysterical recurrent sleep*. I want to apply that to the course of the fainting spell.” “Admittedly, Hōsui-kun, I am by nature a non-fantastical animal,” retorted Dr.Otokone with an expression that seemed to dispel bewilderment, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Generally, during a hysterical episode, antitoxic properties against morphine increase. But no matter what you do, you can’t avoid the skin’s moisture.”

When Dr. Otokone invoked morphine as an example to discuss the sedation of stimulated nerves, it was of course a sarcastic jab at Hōsui—yet it targeted his flights of fancy that occasionally sought to transcend the limits of human thought. The reason lay in the fact that this pathological mental phenomenon called hysterical recurrent sleep was an exceedingly rare disease among rare diseases, with Dr. Fukurai’s August 1896 publication (Meiji 29) standing as the first documented literature on it in Japan. Indeed, even in a short story by Kojima Gyotaro—a recently emerged detective novelist who favored themes of temples and pathological psychology—there existed a work where a medical officer plotting murder made his patient, originally a mere laborer, memorize medical terminology, then had him recite it during a later episode to fabricate an alibi. As this demonstrated, when a self-hypnotic episode occurred, one would reenact and articulate the most recent portion of their own actions and heard phrases with exact precision. Thus, it seemed more appropriate to call this phenomenon by its alternative name: *hysterical non-suggestive post-hypnotic phenomenon*, as this better captured its essence. Given this context, Dr. Otokone’s objections—voiced with biting sarcasm on the surface while inwardly exhilarated by Hōsui’s acute perceptiveness—were hardly unreasonable. Upon hearing this, Hōsui released a self-mocking sigh before an unusual manic excitement surged through him.

“Of course, it belongs to the realm of rare phenomena. However, if we don’t invoke that concept, how could we possibly explain Nobuko losing consciousness while gripping an armor-piercing dagger? Listen, Dr. Otokone—Henri Piéron documented dozens of cases of hysterical sensory loss stemming from fatigue. Moreover, that woman Nobuko had replayed a hymn she’d performed this morning—one she shouldn’t have been playing at that hour—immediately before collapsing. So if someone applied pressure to her abdomen through some mechanism at that moment, wouldn’t you find yourself compelled to accept Charcot’s experiments showing how such manipulation induces unconsciousness?”

“So, your concern about the cervical vertebrae—does that also stem from there?” Dr. Otokone had unwittingly been drawn in.

“That’s right. “I might be having visions of grandeur—seeing myself as Napoleon, perhaps—but I’ve been holding a mental specimen in mind for some time now. Don’t you think there’s a connection between Siegfried and the cervical vertebrae in this case?” “Siegfried?!” Even Dr. Otokone was momentarily stunned. “Granted, I do know one such specimen of a man driven mad by induction.”

“No, ultimately it’s a matter of analogy.” “However, I believe that even intellect possesses a magical efficacy,” Hōsui said, his bloodshot eyes drifting with a shadow of reverie. “By the way, do you know that an intense tickling sensation has the same effect as electrical stimulation? “Also, if a spot with sensation remains at the center of a paralyzed area, intense itching will occur there—you’re probably aware of this from Arlutz’s writings, I imagine.” “However, you claim there are no signs of trauma on Nobuko’s cervical vertebrae.” “But Dr. Otokone, there exists one singular means here to induce reactive movement in an unconscious person.” “There exists a method to evoke, through peculiar stimulation, movement of fingers that physiologically cannot firmly grasp anything.” “And that is expressed by the formula of Siegfried + the leaf—you see.”

“Ah, I see,” Inspector Kumajirō nodded sarcastically. “That leaf you’re talking about must be Don Quixote, I suppose.” Hōsui let out a faint sigh, yet still marshaling his resolve, made a desperate attempt to counter Nobuko’s seemingly supernatural fainting spell.

“Now listen closely. It’s a frightfully demonic twist, you see. When ether is atomized and sprayed onto the skin, sensation becomes diffusely lost across that area. You’d apply it to the entire body of an unconscious person—but leave only the region governing hand movement at the seventh and eighth cervical vertebrae untouched, precisely like Siegfried’s leaf. Because even if cutaneous touch fades during unconsciousness, internal kinesthesia and joint sensation—above all, itching—remain exquisitely responsive to stimulation. Naturally, intense pruritus erupts there. And that, akin to electrical excitation, must stimulate the cervical nerves’ target zone to induce involuntary finger motion. Through this single mechanism—the question of how Nobuko gripped the armor-piercing dagger—I felt I’d seized the fundamental equation. Dr. Otokone, you framed it as intentional versus spontaneous—but I propose intentional versus some ether substitute. Why, to pierce its essence demands nerves of still finer analytical temper.” As he spoke, an anguished shadow swiftly overtook his features, his voice sinking to a sepulchral murmur.

“Ah, indeed I did talk. But after all, the position of the swivel chair… how does that overtone performance fit into this?” After that, Hōsui spent a while gazing at the trajectory of his smoke, appearing to quell his heightened state, before eventually turning to Dr. Otokone and shifting the topic.

“By the way, I believe I requested you to obtain Nobuko’s signature. Did you manage to get it?”

“But wait—this has more than enough value to serve as a textbook case for questioning.” “Why did you make Nobuko write her own name the moment she regained consciousness?” As Dr. Otokone spoke, the gazes of all three men abruptly converged on the scrap of paper he had produced. For on it was written not “Kamiya,” but “Furuyatsuki Nobuko.” Hōsui merely blinked briefly before explaining the ripples his question had caused.

“Indeed, Dr. Otokone, I did want Nobuko’s signature. That being said, I’m not Lombroso, you know. To understand undines and sylphs, there’s no need to plagiarize even Crèvecœur’s *Graphology*. To tell the truth, fainting often leads to memory loss. That’s why—if Nobuko isn’t the culprit—I’ve privately feared there might be something that would be buried in oblivion as things stand. By the way, my attempt originates from *The Memory of Maria Brunel*.”

(Note) In Hans Gross’s *Manual for Examining Magistrates*, an example pertaining to the subconscious is cited. Namely, in March 1893 at the residence of schoolteacher Brunel in Dietkirchen, Lower Bavaria, two children were murdered while his wife and maid sustained grave injuries, after which Mr. Brunel himself was detained as a suspect. Yet when the wife regained consciousness and was asked to sign the interrogation transcript, she wrote not Maria Brunel but Maria Guttenberger. However, Guttenberger was neither her maiden name nor any relation to her family—indeed it stood as an entirely distinct surname—and even when prompted to recall it, she professed no knowledge of the name. From that moment onward, she had sunk below the threshold of consciousness. However, as investigations advanced, this name was found to belong to the maid’s lover, who was promptly arrested as the perpetrator. Thus when writing “Maria Guttenberger,” though her conscious memory of the criminal’s face—witnessed during the atrocity—had been lost through head trauma and unconsciousness, it surfaced from her subconscious in that hazy state following her accidental awakening.

Just by "Maria Brunel...," something seemed to have been evoked, and a shared understanding manifested across their three faces. Hōsui brought a fresh cigarette to his lips and continued.

“So Dr. Otokone, the reason I conditioned Nobuko’s awakening was ultimately to target that same hazy state as Mrs. Maria Brunel—to capture her subconscious mind just as it teetered on the brink of slipping away.” “Yet even she couldn’t escape the legal psychologists’ compendium of case studies.” “Tell me—shouldn’t we seek Nobuko’s precedent in Ophelia?” “But Ophelia merely recalled a bawdy song from her childhood nurse—‘Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day’—after she’d already gone mad.” “Whereas Nobuko, crowned with that supremely theatrical surname Furuyatsuki, enacted a staggering irony.”

The signature possessed a terrifying power that seemed to draw one in. As they remained transfixed for a while, the impulsive Inspector Kumajirō was the first to rally his vigor.

“In other words, Guttenberger equals Hatatarō.” “With this, Mrs. Krivov’s testimony gets neatly resolved.” “Come on, Hōsui—you’re going to break Hatatarō’s alibi.” “No, assessing this is no simple matter.” “Still Furuyatsuki X,” Prosecutor Shikura showed no sign of readily agreeing. When he obliquely hinted at Sanzō’s mysterious role, Hōsui nodded in agreement—yet a look of disarray surfaced on his face, as if met with scathing irony. In truth, if that were a ghost-like subconscious, it would likely be Hōsui’s victory. But if it were merely a momentary mental error, then it would undoubtedly be a monster transcending all reasoning and measurement. Dr. Otokone glanced at his watch and stood up, but this caustic-tongued man was not one to depart without hurling a final sarcastic remark.

“Well, it seems even the spirits have retired for tonight.” "But Hōsui, the problem lies not in imagination but in the soundness of logical judgment." “If those two could march in step, you might just become Napoleon.” “No—Thomsen will suffice,” Hōsui retorted with equal sharpness, his words abruptly whipping up an ominous storm beneath their surface. “The Danish historian who deciphered the ancient Turkic inscriptions upstream along the Orkhon River near Lake Baikal.” “Of course, I don’t possess any profound expertise in historiography.” “However, in this case, I’ve managed to decipher inscriptions surpassing those of Orkhon.” “You’ll stay in the hall and await the greatest excavation of this century.”

“Excavation?!” Inspector Kumajirō was so startled he nearly leapt from his seat. Yet though none could fathom what schemes Hōsui harbored within, the unyielding resolve etched between his brows made plain he prepared to cast all upon a single desperate gamble. Moments later, as Dr. Otokone departed and Tagō Shinsai entered through the stifling tension, Hōsui at once thrust forth his blade of inquiry.

“I’ll ask you plainly—you patrolled the mansion between eight and eight-twenty last night and locked the Ancient Clock Room at that time, correct? However, there should have been one person who vanished around that time. No, Mr. Tagō—last night during the Divine Inquisition, the number of family members present in this mansion was not five but six, correct?”

The moment he heard this, Shinsai’s entire body shuddered as if electrocuted. He then acted as if searching for something to cling to, his eyes darting restlessly about—but suddenly adopted a retaliatory stance, “Oh ho! If you intend to exhume the late Dr. Sanzō’s remains amid this blizzard, I presume you possess a warrant.”

“No—if necessity demands it, I might not hesitate to break the law,” Hōsui retorted coldly. However, deeming further exchanges with Shinsai futile, he began to state his theory frankly. “To begin with, I never even dreamed of expecting you to readily open your mouth from the very start.” “Therefore, I will begin by externally proving the existence of that vanished individual.” “By the way, are you familiar with the term ‘auditory-tactile model for the blind’?” “A blind person utilizes all senses except sight to synthesize the fragmented pieces that reach each of them.” “And thus, they attempt to grasp the form of objects near themselves.” “Now, Mr. Tagō, there’s naturally no reason for that person’s figure to be reflected in my eyes.” “Moreover, I have heard neither any sounds nor even a trivial word concerning that individual.” “However, at the very start of this incident, a certain centrifugal force came into play—and that force hurled one individual far beyond the sphere of those involved.” “The moment I first set foot in this mansion, I felt something I can only describe as an omen.” “I was able to discern that from the servant’s actions.”

“Then I asked…” Prosecutor Shikura shouted with abnormal agitation. In that instant, he perceived his doubts beginning to dissolve away entirely. Hōsui responded to the prosecutor with a faint smile before continuing his account. “To analyze this nerve-driven pantomime properly,” he began, “we must return to when I first ascended the grand staircase guided by a servant.” Though deafened by a police car’s roaring engine nearby at that time—when my shoe happened to creak faintly—the servant walking ahead stiffened abruptly and sidestepped despite facing forward.” This realization sent an involuntary jolt through my nervous system.” Thus during our entire ascent,” he continued methodically,”I deliberately repeated this action experimentally—each instance provoking identical evasive maneuvers from him.” This voiceless pantomime clearly strove to communicate some vital truth.” Thereupon I formulated my deduction.” Amidst that mechanical din,” he emphasized,”I had perceived sounds that should have been obliterated—nay! Sounds utterly imperceptible under ordinary circumstances.” Yet this constituted neither divine intervention nor hepatic dysfunction,” he concluded clinically.” “Medical science terms this Willis’ sign—a pathological auditory hypersensitivity enabling perception of faint noises concurrent with overwhelming ones.”

Hōsui slowly lit a cigarette, took a drag, and continued. “Needless to say, that sign serves as a precursor to certain types of mental disorders. However, when one examines Tichener’s *Psychology of Horror* and similar works, numerous experimental studies are cited regarding physiological phenomena that occur when gripped by extreme terror. What particularly piques interest would likely be a case from Dormdorff’s *Apparent Death and Premature Burial*. I believe in 1826, when Bishop Donné of Bordeaux died suddenly and doctors certified his death, he was placed in a coffin and a funeral service was conducted. However, in the midst of this, Donné revived within the coffin.” Hōsui’s voice shifted to clinical narration as he described the next details: “Having lost the freedom of his voice and thus unable to call for help, he mustered all his strength to slightly pry open the coffin lid—yet in that very moment, he exhausted himself and became immobile within the coffin once more.” Returning to direct address, he concluded: “However, amidst that unspeakable terror of being buried alive, even as the solemn chorus of sutra hymns thundered around him, it is said that two of his friends heard whispering voices.” Then Hōsui transposed that phenomenon into the substance of this case.

“In that case, this situation naturally presents a single enigma.” “Generally speaking, servants may experience a bystander’s excitement, but even if an investigator who hasn’t yet arrived at the scene shows signs of approaching to ask questions, there is no logical reason for them to feel any terror toward it.” “Therefore, at that moment, I was struck by an eerie premonition—something like the premise of an event yet to unfold.” “To put it another way—it was likely a dramatic play of hypersensitive nerves—but I felt a peculiar, almost tangible atmosphere closing in, something I couldn’t quite put into words.” Precisely because it was not something clear, I felt compelled by a force that demanded I draw closer—even if I had to writhe against resistance. “And before long, as I realized it was a product of your tongue-twisting riddle, I was able to measure the height of that fated individual you desperately tried to conceal.”

“Height?” Shinsai’s eyes widened in genuine shock, but here the three of them were now driven into a state of exhilaration unlike anything they had ever experienced.

“That’s correct. ‘That crest on the helmet—it declares, “Behold this person.”’” Hōsui said quietly, pushing his chair back deeply. “You likely noticed as well—among the antique armors in the cloister, there was a ferocious black-haired three-plate deer-antlered helmet resting upon the scarlet-laced shikoro near the door on the circular corridor side. Furthermore, among the hanging armor sets in that front row, one of the leather-laced cuirasses—this one crowned with a resplendent lion-bite crest and a star-shaped narrow-hoe-form front crest helmet—when judged in combination with the other, leaves unmistakable traces of replacement. Not only that, but through the servant’s testimony, I was able to confirm that this replacement had been carried out after seven o’clock last night. However, that replacement reflects an exceedingly delicate mental image. ‘And only when combined with the two murals on the opposite side of the circular corridor does it first reveal this true form.’ As you know, the one on the right is ‘The Virgin Conception,’ with the Virgin Mary standing at the left end, while the one on the left, ‘The Morning of Calvary,’ has a crucifix with Jesus nailed to it standing at the right end. In other words, it was because unless those two helmets were replaced, a phenomenon so bizarre it defies belief would appear—the Virgin Mary being nailed to the crucifix. However, the cause was easily ascertained. Now, Mr. Tagō, was there not a hexagonal wall lamp near the door of the circular corridor—one made with frosted glass on the exterior, alternating flat and convex panels? In fact, I discovered a bubble in the flat panel facing the scarlet-laced shikoro. By the way, are you familiar with the apparatus called the Coccius ophthalmoscope used in ophthalmology? A small hole is bored in the center of a flat mirror, and a concave mirror is placed on the opposite axis so that gathered light may pass through the hole in the flat mirror to reach the fundus of the eye. In this case, however, light from the ceiling chandelier was gathered by the concave panel, passed through a bubble in the flat panel ahead, and then irradiated the front crest on the opposite side. In other words, once that is understood, the height of the eyes must be measured based on the position that would receive the intense reflected light from the front crest.”

“But what did that reflected light do?” “To put it simply, it induces diplopia,” Hōsui explained. “Even during hypnosis, applying lateral pressure to the eyeball disrupts the visual axis and causes double vision—yet a strong light striking from the side produces the same effect.” He leaned forward slightly, his cigarette’s ember glowing brighter with each word. “The result makes the Virgin Mary overlap with the crucifix ahead, creating an illusion of her being crucified—you see?” “Needless to say,” he continued, “the one who swapped those helmets was a woman.” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “Because this phantom vision of Mary’s crucifixion—first and foremost—symbolizes the most tragic fate imaginable for a woman.” The detective’s fingers traced invisible diagrams in the air as he elaborated, “Moreover, it instills a primal fear—this sense of divine judgment watching from above, punishment looming like some atavistic terror.” Ash fell unnoticed from his cigarette onto the table between them. “Such religious sentiments form an instinctual undercurrent no intellect can easily overcome.” “Intuitive, not speculative,” Hōsui emphasized, his eyes sharp behind curling smoke tendrils. “When Saint Augustine preached eternal damnation, Catholicism’s punitive spirit had already become an unstoppable supra-personal force.” He stubbed out his cigarette with sudden force. “Whether accidental or intentional, that power shatters mental equilibrium instantly.” His gaze locked onto Tagō’s increasingly pale face. “Especially in fragile psychological states—when plotting something abnormal—the impact proves devastating.” A mirthless smile twisted his lips. “Hence why that woman swapped the helmets to avoid such turmoil... Mr. Tagō.” Hōsui produced a tape measure from his coat pocket, letting it unspool dramatically across the table. “Now consider—when measuring height parallel to that helmet crest’s star...” The metal tab clinked against a teacup. “Five feet four inches.” His voice hardened. “The servants wouldn’t meddle with decorations, foreigners are irrelevant, while Nobuko and Kuga Chinako stand one or two inches shorter.” He leaned back, shadows deepening the hollows of his face. “Yet that woman remains hidden here.” The tape measure snapped back into its case with a whip-crack sound. “Who could she possibly be?” Though Hōsui pressed relentlessly for answers, Shinsai maintained stony silence. A dangerous fervor now charged the detective’s voice, crackling like static before a storm.

“And then, within my mind, that single mental image gradually grew into a great paradox—but just now, the truth was finally uttered from your lips. And thus, my calculations were completed.”

"What are you implying?" “From my own mouth?” Rather than astonishment, it was indignation—as if he were being mocked by his interlocutor’s suddenly altered tone—that Shinsai displayed.

“That is the sole obstacle within you.” “You’ve strayed beyond reason—warped by your delusions.” “I shall not be startled by your delusional signal fires.” “Ha ha ha ha, ‘delusional signal fires,’ you say?” Hōsui burst into uproarious laughter but spoke in a quiet, refined tone. “No, it should be ‘Let the beaten doe weep and depart; let the heartless stag frolic.’” “However, earlier when I quoted ‘O thou who pluckedst in midnight’s dark the herb’s breath-liquid’ from *The Murder of Gonzago*, you responded with the next line: ‘Thrice withered by witches’ curses, steeped in poison—’ did you not?” “Why did you lose the metrical rhythm after ‘thrice’ at that moment?” “Moreover—and this is most suspicious—when you rephrased it by combining ‘Ban’ with ‘thrice’ into ‘Banthrice’, you suddenly turned pale.” “Of course, my purpose was not philological critique.” “I sought to draw from your lips those very words—‘thrice witches’... and what follows—for they mirror this case’s ostentatious, idiotic-intimidating inception.” “In short, I appropriated Broudon’s hypothesis—that poetic language wields intense associative power—and adapted it as a psychological interrogation tool.” “A poetic form concealing weaponry, if you will.” “Thus I scrutinized your neural activity and extracted a ghostly forte from within.” “Barry—the pre-Kean Shakespearean actor—noted Shakespeare’s frequent use of Greek quantitative prosody.” “The principle holds that one long syllable equals two short in quantity, with iambic patterns formed through alliteration, rhyme, and stress to create musicality.” “Therefore, misreciting even one word disrupts the entire metre.” “Yet your loss of rhythm after ‘thrice’ was no accident.” “That word carries at least a dagger’s psychological force.” “You realized it would provoke me—hence your flustered correction.”

“However, in that recitation, you had to disregard the metrical principles I just mentioned. Because it played precisely into my hands, it instead ended up causing irreparable chaos. You see, by avoiding ‘thrice’ and combining it with ‘Ban’ from the previous line to form ‘Banthrice,’ it resonates like ‘Banshrice’—the old man into whom a banshee transforms when standing at the gate of an unnatural death, as per Celtic legend. Now, Mr. Tagō, the line I presented—‘O thou who pluckedst in midnight’s dark...’—had traps layered within it, twofold, even threefold. Of course, I don’t believe you were playing Banshrice’s role in this case. But what exactly does this ‘thrice steeped in witches’ curses and poison’ signify? Mrs. Dannenberg… Ekisuke… And the third time?”

Having said that, Hōsui stared fixedly at the man for a while, but Shinsai’s face gradually became shrouded in a haze of despair. Hōsui continued, “Then I once again placed the ‘thrice’ from *The Murder of Gonzago* on the examination table—this time observing it as a descending curve.” “And thus, I was finally able to confirm that there exists a terrifying power within that single word—one that thoroughly dominates the psychology of testimony from start to finish.” “For that purpose, I drew out the most farcical passage from Pope’s *The Rape of the Lock*—where imagination runs so wild as to believe a man could become pregnant by himself—and thereby hinted to you that there was not the slightest trace of scheming in your heart.” “Yet when you responded with the next line—‘The virgin thought herself turned to a jar, thrice cried out and sought its stopper’—you uttered it with such composure and impeccable recitation technique, almost as if wholly unaware of the word ‘thrice’ embedded within.” “Of course, that is a blind spot phenomenon common in relaxed psychological states.” Furthermore, when comparing the two instances from before and after, even though it was the same single word “thrice,” he was able to measure a striking difference in psychological impact between its appearance in *The Murder of Gonzago* and that in *The Rape of the Lock*. “Therefore, to make my conclusion even more certain, I next attempted to elicit from Mrs. Serena the number of family members who had been in the mansion last night.” “However, when I quoted Gottfried’s—‘Who now can prevent me from uniting with the devil at once?’—Mrs. Serena responded with the next line—‘Trembling and quaking at the dagger’s mark.’” “However, for some reason, when she uttered ‘sech’—dagger—a look of panic appeared, and moreover, where she should have combined ‘dagger’s mark’ into a single syllable through alliteration, she inserted an unnecessary pause between ‘sech’ and ‘Stempel’—mark—thereby throwing the subsequent metre into disarray. Why on earth would Mrs. Serena employ such an absurd recitation method?” “It was simply because she feared it would resonate as ‘Sechs Tempel’—Six Temples.” “In the latter half of that legendary poem, it appears that through the magic of the lord of ‘God’s Fortress’—near present-day Metz—it manifests within the forest of Walpurgis Night—and it is said that those who enter the sixth temple are never seen again.” “Thus, what Mrs. Serena implied without being asked or told—this sixth individual... No—the fact that a sixth person suddenly vanished from this mansion last night can no longer be denied, even based solely on the mental images of you two as reflected in my neural perceptions.” “Thus, my sculpting in the dark was completed.”

Shinsai, seemingly unable to bear it any longer, gripped the armrests—his hands began to tremble eerily.

“Then, who exactly is this person you have in mind?” “Oshikane Tsutako.” Hōsui declared solemnly without hesitation. “That woman was once called Japan’s Maud Adams—a great actress. The measurement of five feet four inches could only correspond to her height. Mr. Tagō, when you discovered Mrs. Dannenberg’s unnatural death, you naturally turned your suspicions toward Mrs. Tsutako, who had disappeared since last night. But wishing to prevent a criminal from emerging from this illustrious clan, you found yourself compelled to conceal matters through some means. Therefore, you imposed a gag order on everyone and hid Mrs. Tsutako’s personal effects somewhere inconspicuous. Needless to say, when considering who could enact such authoritative measures—there is no one but you. With the mansion’s true authority standing before us, what logic exists to seek another plausible candidate?”

Oshikane Tsutako—precisely because her name had been entirely absent from the case's periphery, its revelation now struck like a bolt from the blue. Hōsui's neural activity continued its subtle emission—was this the culmination it had ascended to?

However, both Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō wore faces as if paralyzed, unable to easily muster words. The reason was that, even if this were indeed Hōsui’s divine technique, it was a hypothesis so fraught with dread that they could not possibly accept it at face value.

Shinsai shook his wheelchair so violently it nearly toppled over and began roaring with laughter.

“Ha ha ha ha ha! Mr. Hōsui, let’s have you cease this absurd occult nonsense.” “The Mrs. Tsutako you speak of left this mansion early yesterday morning.” “First of all, where exactly are you claiming she’s hidden?” “If it were a place accessible by human means, it would have been thoroughly searched by now.” “If she’s hiding somewhere, then I’ll personally drag her out as the culprit, I tell you!”

“Why, far from being the culprit...” Hōsui retorted with a cold smile. “Instead, what’s needed are a pencil and a scalpel.” “Well, I too once regarded Mrs. Tsutako as a sylph’s self-portrait.” “But Mr. Tagō, this too proves an exceedingly pitiable tangent.” “That person lost all chance of receiving applause even after becoming a corpse.” “That occurred before eight o’clock last night.” “By that hour, Mrs. Tsutako had already been borne away to the spirit realm.” “Thus, she stands as the one who preceded Mrs. Dannenberg… That is to say, the first victim in this case.”

“What?! Killed?!” Shinsai appeared to have suffered a shock equivalent to an electric jolt. And he reflexively countered with a question: “S-so... then where are you saying the corpse is?” “Ah, were you to hear that, you would surely feel a martyr’s sentiment,” Hōsui replied with a theatrical sigh before stating flatly, “To speak truthfully, it was your own hands that shut that heavy steel door containing the corpse.”

It was no wonder all sensation vanished from their three faces. Hōsui, as if this case were his own phantasmagorical game, piled one bizarre escalation upon another with each passage he continued to expound. And precisely this extreme peak had clearly revealed the sensory limits of the three. Thereupon, Hōsui raised the curtain on the next act of this Northern-style tragedy.

“Now, Mr. Tagō—around seven o’clock last night coincided with the servants’ mealtime and aligns with when the helmet in the arcade was replaced. In any case, shortly before or after that time, the two suits of medieval armor at the base of the grand staircase had leapt up the stairs in a single bound and stood blocking the front of the Anatomy Diagram.” “However, that single fact alone proves Mrs. Tsutako’s corpse lies within the Ancient Clock Room, you see.” “Well then, evidence over theory—let’s have you open that steel door this time.”

Then, how interminably long that dark corridor to the Ancient Clock Room felt. The wind violently shaking the windows and the snow likely never registered in their ears. With fever-patient eyes bloodshot and upper bodies leaning forward needlessly—for these three who had lost all physical composure, Hōsui's calm and measured pace must have been agonizingly frustrating. When they finally pushed open the first iron-lattice door on both sides and stood before the steel door lacquered to a mirror-like sheen resembling black glass, Shinsai hunched over, unlocked the iron box beneath the right door's handle with a retrieved key, and began rotating its dial. Right, left, then right again—a faint click of the latch releasing sounded. Hōsui peered into the dial's intricate engravings,

“Indeed, this follows a compass ceremony popular during the Victorian era—the dial’s perimeter bears the Four Kings emblem of England’s Imperial Guard Dragoon Regiment.” “Henry V, Henry VI, Henry VIII—finely engraved with Queen Elizabeth’s sleeve insignia, and a bust of the Right Hon’ble JOHNLord CHURCHIL carved into the handle,” he said, though his words carried a hollow resonance tinged with disappointment. For Hōsui—who had placed little faith in the lock’s efficacy—this doubly secured iron bastion must have overturned some conviction that had been coiled within his mind.

“Well, I don’t know its proper name,” he said, “but if you follow the opposite path of how the combination was set, it’s designed to open in three steps.” “In other words, the last character used to lock it becomes the first to unlock. However, since Dr. Sanzō’s demise, no one but I has known how to operate this dial or access the iron box.”

The next instant—before they could even swallow—the group felt breath-stopping tension as Hōsui gripped both handles and began swinging open the heavy iron doors. The interior was pitch-black darkness, a damp cellar-like air coldly brushing against them. Yet midway through this motion, Hōsui abruptly halted and stiffened as if struck by a shudder. His demeanor suggested he was listening intently. Alongside the languid ticking of the pendulum marking each moment, an eerie resonance—as if roaring from the earth’s depths—flowed inward.

2. Salamander sollgluhen (Oh fire spirit, burn fiercely) However, Hōsui resumed his interrupted motion and fully swung open both doors, revealing rows of strangely shaped ancient clocks lining the left and right walls inside. Where the fading outside light mingled with the inner darkness, several glass-like surfaces with inscribed characters appeared to shimmer with an eerie, scale-like luminescence—within that faint glow, a pulse of vitality seemed to etch itself into being. This was because the long, narrow pendulums moving here and there were constantly repeating a pulsating flicker. In this tomb-vault-like gloom-laden air, the age-dusted stillness and the myriad sounds of seconds ticking remained unbroken—likely because not a single soul among them had yet exhaled their tightly held breath. But then, at that moment, the doll clock placed atop the large inlaid central pillar suddenly emitted the sound of a spring unwinding—no sooner had it done so than it began to play an old-fashioned minuet. The elegant tones from the rotating zither—an automatic musical instrument that rotated two cylinders in opposite directions, using countless spikes to pluck steel bars arranged like a ladder—seemed to shatter the oppressive eerie atmosphere, and then that heavy, dragging sound once again entered everyone’s ears.

“Lights!” Inspector Kumajirō bellowed as if snapping back to his senses. When Shinsai turned the wall switch with his hand, Hōsui’s uncanny prediction had indeed proven true. The reason stood revealed: atop a long chest in the chamber’s depths lay Mrs. Tsutako—her life cast upon the dice of four—hands folded over her chest in endless repose. That austere beauty could only be likened to a ceramic funerary effigy of Beatrice. Yet that dull, dragging resonance emanated unmistakably from where Mrs. Tsutako lay— An eerie snore like subterranean tremors, mingled with what might have been a sickly wheeze... Ah—Mrs. Tsutako, whom Hōsui had presumed dead—still clung to some shred of vitality! Her skin had lost all living hue, her body temperature fallen to cadaverous chill, yet faint breaths persisted—a weak heartbeat still pulsed beneath. And save for her face, her entire form lay swathed in blankets like some modern mummy. As the rotating zither’s minuet faded, two child automata raised their right-hand hammers in turn to strike the bell— Announcing eight o’clock.

“Chloral hydrate.” After moving his face away from where he had been sniffing her breath, Hōsui declared in an energetic voice. “Her pupils are constricted, and the odor matches as well. “But I’m just glad she’s still alive.” “Hey Inspector Kumajirō, with Mrs. Tsutako’s recovery, some light might finally be shed on this case.”

“Well, at least the drug storage investigation wasn’t in vain,” Inspector Kumajirō said with a face like he’d bitten into something bitter. “But thanks to you, I’ve been subjected to some appalling news instead.” "What a colossal disappointment." "That woman with a motive as vivid as a copperplate print has gone and trained such an idiotic cannon on us." "Why don’t you call in a medium while you’re at it?" As Inspector Kumajirō had noted, Mrs. Tsutako Oshikane—solely excluded from the inheritance distribution and ostensibly possessing the strongest motive—appeared to have some fragile weak point that might rupture. Just as this became apparent, she had not only manifested as a figure of brutal savagery lost in some frenzy, but now—contradicting Hōsui’s deductions—her mysterious comatose state demanded delicate conjecture. In this intolerable reversal of expectations—a snarl that would vex anyone beyond just Kumajirō—there could be no doubt this case defied all reason. Even Prosecutor Shikura exhaled an irritated sigh and remarked:

“It’s simply, utterly astonishing.” “In barely over twenty hours, we’ve ended up with two deaths and two people collapsing.” “In any case, the critical issue lies in the period before the dial was turned.” “By then, the perpetrator must have brought Mrs. Tsutako here after rendering her unconscious,” he said, looking at Hōsui with conviction. “But Hōsui, if we can determine the approximate dosage administered, we could estimate when it was forced down her throat.” “I suspect there’s something there.” “There must be layers upon layers behind this coma,” declared Prosecutor Shikura with uncharacteristic resignation, himself now drawn into the weighty certainty of motive surrounding Mrs. Tsutako.

“That’s certainly an astute observation.” Hōsui nodded in satisfaction but continued, “But the dosage is irrelevant here. “The critical issue is that the perpetrator never intended to kill this person.” “What? No intent to kill⁉” Prosecutor Shikura instinctively echoed, then immediately countered: “But we can’t possibly claim there was a dosage miscalculation.” “Shikura, in this case, the dosage isn’t fundamentally significant,” Hōsui pressed on. “Simply drugging someone to sleep and leaving them in this room would have been lethally sufficient. “A substantial dose of chloral hydrate drastically lowers body temperature. “Moreover, this chamber—encased in stone and metal—maintains frigid conditions. “Had they opened a window to let in outside air, this room would’ve provided ideal freezing conditions for hypothermic death. “Yet not only did the perpetrator avoid this foolproof method”—Hōsui gestured at the blanket-wrapped figure—“they went so far as to mummify her with these perplexing insulating measures.” As always, he plucked another aberrant question from this supremely grotesque mystery.

However, just as he had stated, stalactite-like rust clung to the window latch, and moreover, not even the slightest trace remained within the cleaned room. Hōsui stared fixedly as he watched Mrs. Tsutako being carried out, his face taking on a shuddering expression as he spoke. “I think if we wait one more day, she should be able to endure interrogation—but there’s one thing you must commit to memory.” “Why did the perpetrator deprive Mrs. Tsutako of her freedom and imprison her—that’s the crucial point.” “Or perhaps it’s just my overthinking—though I could be mistaken.” “It seems to me that the insidious scheme which led them to take such measures might perhaps lie within the words she utters after regaining consciousness.” “Because whenever you think there’s a weak spot, that’s precisely where a pitfall lies.”

Whether due to having encountered Hōsui’s shocking exposé, Shinsai had grown alarmingly haggard over these ten minutes or so, to the point of near-unrecognizability. With feeble hands maneuvering the wheelchair, he made a pleading gesture as if about to speak, “I understand, Mr. Tagō,” Hōsui gently cut him off. “I’ll take care of informing Inspector Kumajirō about the measures you’ve taken.” “By the way, around what time last night did Mrs. Tsutako Oshikane vanish?”

“It was quite late when that occurred.” “Well, since she was absent from the Divine Inquisition, that’s when we first noticed her disappearance,” Shinsai said at last with visible relief. “Around six o’clock in the evening, a call came through from her husband, Dr.Oshikane. “And we were informed that he intended to attend the Kyushu University neurology conference via last night’s nine o’clock express. However, at that time, one of the servants merely saw Mrs.Tsutako exit the telephone room, after which she vanished from our sight.” “However, this phone call matter was a fact that emerged from the other party’s own mouth when we verified it at her residence.”

“I see. From six to eight—” “In any case, we need to investigate each individual’s movements during that period.”

“Or who knows—maybe even a matchlock gun will pop out from there,” Inspector Kumajirō said almost intuitively. Hōsui looked back at him in surprise.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You may be physically robust,” Hōsui dismissed Inspector Kumajirō outright, “but how could such banal logic as alibis possibly apply to the machinations of that deranged poet?” He then adopted the appreciative air of a connoisseur lacking only a monocle, his gaze growing keenly curious as it traveled across the assembly of ancient timepieces. Among them stood a Chaldean Rossos sundial and a Bismarck Archipelago Dakudaku Society palm-fiber chronometer. The water clocks numbered over a dozen varieties—from Ctesibius-type mechanisms to fifth-century Rouran tribe bowl chronometers (the Rouran being a western nomadic people driven into the Caucasus by Turkic forces in the late sixth century)—each frame carved with Ptolemaic Egyptian monarchs, deities like Osiris-Ma’at, and even the serpentine demon Sebau Naau. A rare diabolo-shaped hourglass bearing the crest of Frederick von Büren, progenitor of the Hohenstaufen dynasty, drew particular notice—though among those timekeeping methods extinct since medieval Spain, such as oil clocks and matchlock timers, one’s eye fell upon war trophies from Piyale Pasha (the sultan’s son-in-law who clashed with Venetian forces in the 1571 Levant naval campaigns) and tributes from Henry Duke of Guise (the French Catholic leader who orchestrated the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre). Of over twenty weight-driven clocks dating to horology’s earliest days, most remarkable was a massive pirate ship hull adorned with timepieces and hebdomadal circles—an offering from the Merchant Adventurers Company to Lord William Cecil (the Elizabethan statesman who suppressed Hanseatic merchants). This collection stood peerless among the world’s assemblages of antique chronometers. At its heart loomed a sovereign artifact—a brass pedestal columned with Ottoman-style masts and paneled with sea-beast inlays, crowned by a Coterie-style tower clock housing automata. Lacking any modern dial, its circular belfry cradled a single bell flanked by boy-and-girl dolls garbed in Dutch harem fashion. Each quarter-hour saw its pre-wound mainspring unwind as an internal harp mechanism played; when the melody ceased, the doll pair alternately raised mallets to strike prescribed chimes. Hōsui opened the flanking double doors to reveal an upper harp apparatus above the clockwork chamber. There on the door’s interior he chanced upon an unusual fine-engraved seal—on the right panel...

――Tenshō 14, May 19 (AD 1586) – Received this along with a ladder-shaped harp from Felipe II, King of Spain. Moreover, on the left-hand door as well, the following text was engraved. ――Tenshō 15, November 27 (AD 1587 in the Roman calendar since the birth of the Lord). At the Jesuit St. Paul’s Church in Goa, they received the entrails of Saint Francis Xavier, enshrined them within this relic box, and fashioned it into one arm of the child figure.

It was truly one of those poems signed in fresh blood, sprung from the annals of Jesuit martyrdom. However, in later developments, these entrails of Saint Francis Xavier would come to play a pivotal role—but at that moment, Hōsui found himself struck only by something vast and eternal, feeling an indescribable oppressive sensation as if clutched in the fist of some colossal hand. And he gazed at the seal engraving for a while, but soon—

“Ah, that’s right. Saint Francis Xavier—the one who died on Shangchuan Island near the Pearl River estuary in Guangdong Province—had become a beautiful specimen of adipocere.” “So those entrails and relic box form the right arm of the child doll?” he murmured in a low, dreamlike voice before abruptly turning to Shinsai with changed inflection. “By the way, Mr. Tagō—I notice there’s no dust here. When was this clock room last cleaned?”

“It was just yesterday.” “It’s done once a week as per the regular schedule.”

After exiting the Ancient Clock Room, Shinsai first had to resolve the doubts that had plunged him into miserable defeat. Hōsui spread a faint smile at Shinsai’s question,

“So then, are you familiar with Day and Graham’s black mirror magic?” Hōsui first confirmed before exhaling smoke and beginning to explain. “As I mentioned earlier,” Tagō Shinsai responded, “the key lies in those two suits of medieval armor positioned at both ends of the staircase.” “They’re decorative pieces, not particularly heavy,” he continued. “But as you know, around seven o’clock—precisely during the servants’ mealtime—they had leapt up to the staircase corridor in a single bound.” “Both carried long battle banners. At first, I interpreted their crossed positions as the killer’s declaration of murder.” “However, something felt incongruous, so I compared those banners with Gabriel Max’s Anatomy Lesson behind them.” “Of course, the two figures in the painting offered no clues about Mrs. Tsutako’s whereabouts. But then I noticed the banners were obscuring an area high above the composition.” “There—indicating the road to Damascus—stood a milestone.” “That chaotic patch of colors—seemingly dashed on with a paintbrush, forming lines and clumps—that was precisely it.” “Are you acquainted with pointillism theory?” Tagō pressed on. “Instead of blending pigments, it arranges primary-colored dots and lines alternately. When viewed from a fixed distance, these decomposed hues synthesize within the observer’s vision.” “Deviate even slightly from that vantage point, and the unity shatters into indescribable chaos.” “Monet employed this technique for Rouen Cathedral’s portal,” Hōsui interjected, closing the steel door with a clang. “But here it’s been systematized and theoretically elevated—concealed within that very painting. Shall we test what lies hidden in that chromatic disorder?” “Inspector Kumajirō—first turn those three switches on the wall.”

Immediately, Inspector Kumajirō did as Hōsui instructed, first extinguishing the light above Gabriel Max’s *Anatomy Lesson*, followed by the one angled diagonally downward from Jean-François de Troy’s *The 1720 Plague of Marseille* on the right side. Thus, the only illumination remaining in the staircase corridor came from the single light emanating from beside Gérard David’s *The Flaying of Sisamnes* on the left, which now cast a horizontal beam grazing the *Anatomy Lesson*. However, the switch operating that solitary light was located beneath the staircase. Then the muted stability that had persisted until now vanished, and across the entire surface of the *Anatomy Lesson*, a blindingly fierce glare materialized. Furthermore, when the final one was twisted and the overhead light extinguished, Hōsui slapped his hands together once and—

“This should do it. Exactly as I predicted.” Yet even after they spent some time scouring the painting with desperate intensity, nothing but that glaring light met the three of them. “What in blazes is there?!” Kumajirō roared furiously, stamping his foot. But when Shinsai casually turned toward the steel door behind them, something there made Kumajirō instinctively seize his shoulder.

“Ah, Thérèse!”

It was a phenomenon so bizarre and mysterious that it could truly be suspected of being magic. Though the front canvas lay shrouded in a blinding glare, upon the steel door behind them—where the upper portion of that canvas was reflected—there now appeared, in crisp defined lines, the exquisitely beautiful face of a young woman, though from where it had been projected remained a mystery. What made it all the more unnerving was that this undeniably was Thérèse Signoret—the very woman called a vengeful spirit within Kuroshi Mansion. Unmoved by the astonishment around him, Hōsui elucidated the cause of that uncanny illusion.

“You understand now, Mr. Tagō—when those chaotic colors reach that distance, they finally unify into coherence. However, the theory of pointillism in this case merely indicates the distance at which fragmented colors synthesize into unity. Of course, with just those colors alone, nothing more than a hazy blur would be reflected onto this lacquered door. In reality, several additional layers of technique are required beyond that foundational theory—specifically, the 'dark-field illumination method' devised by Schaudinn and Hoffmann at the beginning of this century for staining syphilis bacteria. Syphilis bacteria are originally colorless and transparent microorganisms, so conventional microscopy methods cannot reveal their true form.” Hōsui paused to light a cigarette before continuing. “Therefore, they placed a black background beneath the microscope and altered the light source to send horizontal rays. This allowed them to observe only the light reflected from the transparent microorganisms. In our case, it corresponds to the light emanating from beside 'The Flaying of Sisamnes' on the left and sweeping horizontally across the canvas. Naturally, this shifts the essence from color to luminosity.” He exhaled smoke slowly. “Colors with relatively high luminosity—yellows and yellow-greens—shine with near-white intensity through contrast effects, while others form progressively darker gradations. This luminosity difference becomes decisive when reflected in the black mirror. Colloidal paints inherently produce glare across their entire surface, but this lacquered door”—he rapped his knuckles against it—“not only absorbs that glare but reduces everything to stark black-and-white delineation.” A sardonic smile appeared. “Thus, even slightly proximate colors grow darker when contrasted against peak luminosity—hence Thérèse’s crisply defined features emerging there. Now, Mr. Tagō”—his voice turned didactic—“you’ve read Holcroft’s histories and Pinkerton’s antiquarian works. When stripped to its essence, even Day and Graham’s famed black mirror magic amounts to nothing more than this mechanism.” He gestured at the darkened switches. “So tell me—when those three switches were turned and plunged us into darkness, why did Thérèse’s image have to appear at that precise moment?”

There, Hōsui took a brief breather and lit his cigarette, then began to speak again as he resumed his steady pacing. “That is the eye that destroys falsehood and reveals truth. Probably, Dr. Sanzō felt uneasy merely placing the clock face within an iron case to protect his world-class collection. That is why he secretly installed such an exceedingly theatrical device. Why, you see—please consider this. The three lights that just flickered are usually kept on at all times. Therefore, if someone were to attempt to invade this room, to avoid being detected, they would first have to twist the three nearby switches, plunging this entire area into darkness. If they were to then open the iron-barred door, what had been obstructed by the overhead light would suddenly manifest in an eerie form upon the lacquered door, shining forth.” However, the *Anatomy Lesson* behind them, when viewed from that position, merely displayed fragmented colors and was moreover engulfed in a blinding glare. Thus unable to discern where the source of that image lay, they were ultimately left confronting a supernatural phenomenon so startling it defied belief. “In other words, the timid and superstitious culprit, having once had a bitter experience, must certainly have been threatened. Therefore, last night, they secretly carried up the armored warrior and used two battle banners to conceal the problematic area—that’s the reasoning here.” Hōsui concluded with sardonic emphasis: “Well, Mr. Tagō, this must surely be the clumsiest courtly farce the sylph has ever performed.”

When Hōsui finished speaking, the prosecutor rubbed the back of his chilled hands and approached, saying—

“Brilliant, Hōsui—you’re not merely Thomsen, but Antoine Rossignol (history’s greatest cryptanalyst, who served Louis XIII and XIV and was particularly favored by Cardinal Richelieu).” “Ah, that’s just the sylph’s little jest.” Hōsui’s complexion darkened as he sighed. “That man was ridiculed by the poet Boa Robert with a passage from *Faust* that wasn’t even a cipher.”

×　　　　　　　　×　　　　　　　　×

And so, the first day of the incident came to an end, heaped with contradictions like a mountain. Yet when morning arrived, every newspaper emblazoned their front pages with coverage of the case, sensationalizing it as Japan's most unprecedented mysterious murder through luridly provocative prose. More egregiously—though the investigation had barely begun—they had already hauled in some nonsensical detective novelist of no practical merit, compelling him to spew tedious speculative commentary. Linking this to the bottomless mystique of the Furuyatsuki clan, they appeared determined to whip the incident into a journalistic frenzy. However, Hōsui remained sequestered in his study all day and ultimately did not visit Kuroshikan—likely because Dr. Oshikane, summoned from Fukuoka to unseal the will, would not return until the following afternoon, and additionally because Mrs. Tsutako's condition still seemed too fragile to endure interrogation. These two factors appeared decisive. Yet when considered against past precedents, it was speculated that Hōsui—in his silent contemplation—might be striving to reach some singular conclusion.

Of course that morning, the forensic medicine department announced their autopsy findings. Extracting the key points from these findings, Mrs. Dannenberg’s cause of death was unequivocally cyanide poisoning, with the dosage measured at an astonishing 0.5 grams. However, the crucial elements—the corpse luminescence and crest-shaped wounds—both remained etiologically unexplained, with nothing more than proteinuria detected. Regarding Ekisuke, while the estimated time of death matched Hōsui’s prediction, opinions were sharply divided over the cause of the unusual flaccid asphyxiation and discrepancies in pulse and respiration relative to the time of death—particularly given Ekisuke’s rickets condition, which seemed to invite considerable bias. Among these theories, some even resurrected Kaspar Riemann’s self-strangulation method—now considered classical—proposing Ekisuke might have attempted self-induced asphyxiation before receiving postmortem wounds. Such conjectures had devolved into baseless speculation more suited to tabloid sensationalism.

However, the following morning—January 30—Hōsui suddenly notified all newspaper agencies that he would announce the cause of Ekisuke’s death under the joint supervision of Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō.

Hōsui’s study was an exceedingly simple space, surrounded by nothing more than aimlessly piled mountains of books, yet despite this, its existence had gained considerable renown in society. This was because adorning its walls was what could be called the rarest of rare copperplate prints—the 1668 edition of "The Great Fire of London." Usually, with that at his back, he would expound at length on his most eccentric interest—the history of great conflagrations across all ages and lands. But on that day, when Hōsui opened the door with manuscript in hand, the interior was so packed with some thirty reporters that movement became nearly impossible. Hōsui waited for the clamor to subside, then began reading from the manuscript.

I shall now outline the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the death of Kawanabe Ekisuke, head servant of the Furuyatsuki household. Namely, at 2:30 PM in the arched corridor’s armor suspension area, he was discovered having suffocated while formally clad in samurai armor, with two linear-shaped incised wounds on his throat postmortem, resulting in his demise. The various signs of the corpse clearly proved that death occurred within two hours postmortem; however, the method of suffocation appeared to have been gradually applied, and the pathway remained entirely unknown. Moreover, one of the same servants not only reported knowing that the victim had developed a high fever shortly after 1:00 AM and confirmed the presence of a pulse at that time but further stated that at exactly 2:00 PM—a mere thirty minutes before the body’s discovery—they had heard the victim’s breathing. This constituted an utterly bizarre factual account. Therefore, based on the aforementioned facts, I wished to hereby clarify my personal opinion. Now, regarding the initially unexplained suffocation: rather than attributing it to mechanical thymus death, I asserted that external mechanical pressure had been applied to the thymus. In other words, Kawanabe Ekisuke undoubtedly possessed a developed thymus gland even in adulthood, making him an individual with a peculiar constitutional anomaly. The method involved constricting the carotid artery with a neck ring to induce cerebral anemia, thereby causing a mild stupor, and by forcing the armor to be worn sideways—which strongly compressed the upper clavicle via the chestplate’s saiuchi ring—with that pressure primarily acting upon the left brachiocephalic vein. Consequently, congestion occurred in the thymic vein that drained into it, and furthermore, this spread to the thymus itself, causing congestive hypertrophy—thereby naturally constricting the trachea and ultimately resulting in death through a gradually intensifying asphyxiation over a somewhat prolonged period. However, upon examining the published autopsy findings, there was no mention whatsoever of the thymus. Nevertheless, even though these matters were being left unaddressed, these facts held a significant causal relationship with the victim’s inexplicable respiration. Furthermore, to address the crux of the matter: why had these eminent forensic pathologists failed to notice that both incised wounds avoided arteries in medium-sized or larger vessels, targeting only veins leading into the thoracic cavity? It went without saying that the culprit’s trick—which overturned the fundamental principles of human physiology—lurked there. Now, the purpose behind needing to make incisions of such specific form was none other than this: not merely to sever and contract the hypertrophied thymus but also—through postmortem arterial contraction (wherein even if veins were severed immediately after death, no bleeding occurred; however, after some time, arterial contraction pumped blood into veins in a siphon-like manner, causing hemorrhage)—to fill the thoracic cavity with outflowing blood, thereby compressing the lungs and forcing residual air to be expelled. This was what I believed occurred (regarding postmortem residual air, Wagner and McDougall’s experiments calculated it at approximately twenty cubic inches). Next, regarding postmortem pulsation and high fever: not only did Japanese judicial records of executions—hanging, rotation, and plummeting—contain considerable documentation on this phenomenon, but even Hartmann’s seminal work *Burial Alive* alone cited such notable cases as the Miracle of Terra Bergen (a woman from Farelusleben who developed cardiac sounds and high fever through cardiac massage) and the Hungarian Asvani hanging victim (Professor Bilbauer’s 1815 report describing a corpse left rotating for fifteen minutes, after which pulsation and high fever persisted for twenty minutes). These examples demonstrated that when a corpse continued to move through rotation or similar means after death by asphyxiation, instances of generating heat and pulsation were not entirely nonexistent. Had it not been proven that in Ekisuke’s case as well, the rotation of the armor after death was a contributing factor to the discovery of the corpse? Therefore, synthesizing the aforementioned points, Ekisuke's death remained fixed around 1 PM, and regarding how he came to be clad in armor, battlefield techniques such as the Hōjō-ryū suspended armor quick-donning method were naturally irrelevant in this case. It was therefore inferred that without external assistance, the physically weak and ailing Ekisuke could not have accomplished this alone. However, as a member of the investigative team, I wished to express my sincere regret that this announcement merely stopped at estimating the cause of death and did nothing to contribute to the development of the case.

When Hōsui finished his recitation, the collective breath they’d been holding burst forth in unison. The room erupted into frenzied clamor—voices crackling with exhilaration—until Inspector Kumajirō scattered the reporters like autumn leaves, restoring the sanctuary of their familiar trio. Hōsui sat transfixed, his face uncharacteristically flushed with concentration, then lifted his gaze and broke the silence.

“Well Prosecutor Shikura—I’ve finally reached a certain conclusion.” “Of course it’s external.” “I haven’t managed to unravel all equations yet.” “But suppose we could identify a common factor from individual events—” Hōsui’s gaze swept across their faces with an astonished sidelong glance “—didn’t you compile that list of case-related queries?” “Shall we systematically apply my theory to each item?”

It was at that moment when Prosecutor Shikura, swallowing his breath, took out the memorandum from his pocket. The door opened, and a servant handed a special delivery letter to Hōsui. Hōsui opened the angular envelope, glanced at its contents, but without showing any particular expression, immediately threw it down onto the front of the desk. However, the moment Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō caught sight of it, they were seized by an irrepressible shudder. Behold! Was this not the third missive sent by Dr. Faust? Upon it, written in the usual Gosonic characters, was the following text.

Salamander sollgluhen (O salamander, burn fiercely!)

Part Five: The Third Tragedy

1. The name of the criminal lies among those who fell in the Battle of Lützen.

Salamander sollgluhen (O salamander, burn fiercely!) An invisible demon shrouding Kuroshikan with pitch-black wings had now sent its third line of pentagram incantation while impersonating Dr. Faust. Above all else, Kumajirō found himself unable to suppress an indescribable sense of insult at this provocation. In truth, his subordinates had armored the four remaining family members like Gothic suits of plate mail until they could scarcely move—a veritable human fortress. Yet despite these precautions, was this brazen declaration not announcing another deranged execution? A third tragedy following Mrs. Dannenberg and Ekisuke? If so, what then of Kumajirō’s meticulously constructed defenses? Even this impregnable bulwark—seemingly rendering further crimes impossible—amounted to nothing more than motes of contemptible dust in the perpetrator’s eyes. Nor could one overlook the sheer audacity of courting such ruinous risks—a resolve so reckless it bordered on madness. The three men sat thunderstruck by this effrontery, their voices momentarily stolen away. That day dawned clear once more. Beneath the wall-mounted print of "The Great Fire of London," placid sunlight pooled near Brixton before creeping across the Thames toward King’s Cross—where painted smoke billowed eternally from burning tenements.

Yet in stark contrast, the indoor air hung taut enough to ring like metal if struck—but Hōsui maintained a countenance suggesting calculated assurance, his eyes serenely closed in meditation while he continued to smile and nod with self-contained conviction. Eventually, Inspector Kumajirō spoke in a voice strained with forced vigor.

“I’m not Shinsai, but...” “I won’t be alarmed by delusory beacons.” “That reckless fool’s actions will finally come to an end with this.” “Just think about it!” “Currently, my subordinates are surrounding those four like a shield.” “But here’s the flip side—it’s also serving as the culprit’s activity recorder.” “Hahahaha! Hōsui-kun, what irony!” “It’s possible we haven’t even assigned guards to the culprit, you know.”

Prosecutor Shikura, with his perpetually gloomy countenance, voiced a dissenting view against Inspector Kumajirō’s overconfidence.

“Even if we were to separate those four and scatter them apart, this tragedy would never come to an end.” “No human power could possibly stop it now.” “In fact, I can’t shake the feeling there’s still someone unknown lurking somewhere in Kuroshikan.”

"So you’re saying Digsby didn’t die in Rangoon?" Inspector Kumajirō opened his eyes wide and leaned forward. “Let’s stop with the jokes. If you’re so concerned about Dr. Sanzō’s remains, we’ll exhume them after this case reaches its conclusion.” “Yeah, it might be nerves, but… It’s absolutely not some novelistic fantasy.” “Ultimately, I can’t help feeling this mysterious case is heading inexorably toward that point,” Prosecutor Shikura said with measured restraint, keeping his delirium-like thoughts unspoken—yet within them lurked a nightmarish, mysterious force closing in from behind. Even the comparatively dreamy Hōsui had in fact felt—if only for an instant—something searing well up from those two propositions: the question of Digsby’s survival and the exhumation of Dr. Sanzō’s remains.

The Prosecutor forcefully leaned his chair back and continued to sigh.

“Ah—so this time it’s the salamander?! Then—a pistol or a matchlock?” “Or perhaps they plan to aim some antiquated Snider rifle or 42-pound cannon at us?”

At that moment, Hōsui suddenly opened his eyes and, as if spurred on, leaned halfway over the desk.

“A 42-pound cannon!” “That’s right, Shikura.” “However, if you said that consciously, it’s remarkable.” “I believe this salamander utterly lacks the insidious obscurity of previous ones.” “Given the culprit’s classical tastes, Rodman’s round shot will likely erupt with starfish-shaped white smoke.” “Ah—still your grandiose operetta, I see.” “If that’s the case, fine,” Inspector Kumajirō clicked his tongue irritably before straightening his posture. “But if there’s logical basis to it, I’ll hear you out.”

“Of course there is.” Hōsui nodded casually, but his face showed unrestrained excitement. “The reason lies precisely in this salamander’s lack of gender transformation—unlike the precedents set by the water and wind spirits.” “Now consider the four spirits manifest in that pentagram incantation: water spirit, wind spirit, salamander, and earth spirit—each representing one of the four fundamental elements of material structure.” “Needless to say, these are none other than the elemental spirits imagined by medieval alchemists.” “Until now, we’d only grasped elemental correspondences in fragments—the water spirit with door-opening liquid, the wind god with overtone performances.” “But once we apply this gender transformation interpretation, what seemed deeply esoteric becomes instantly systematized.” “Tell me, Kumajirō—had we not transformed that water spirit into a male entity, how could we have opened that door?” “Why did we overlook how part of the crime equation had been visibly etched there with such precision?”

“What crime equation⁉” At Hōsui’s unexpected words, Kumajirō cried out as if his chest had turned to ash. But truth itself often amounts to nothing more than a preposterous farce of forced interpretations—a truth that invariably falls at one’s feet in the most mundane form. How then did this single aspect Hōsui had laid bare leave those two utterly dumbfounded... “By the way—have you seen Böcklin’s decorative painting of the water spirit in Lake Spirding?” At the base of a dense fir forest lay an ice-carved lake whose waters glowed darkly—a viscous, stagnant hue like ultramarine dissolved into raw potter’s clay. Upon its surface swayed what might have been a dragon’s scaled back—in truth, strands of golden hair undulating like waterweed. “But Kumajirō.” “I’m no professional connoisseur—I’ve no intention of dredging up hunting lodges or gnarled stone bridges to induce meditative states in you.” “When transforming such a water spirit into male form—what element must change first? That’s what I want to ask.”

A faint flush rose to Hōsui's face as he recited Mephisto's line exposing the pentagram's imperfection—for there had been an error in that circle, allowing Mephisto to exploit the gap and breach Faust's binding spell. "Behold closely— "That seal isn't fully closed. "The outward-facing corner remains slightly ajar, exactly as you see here."

“Ah, of course! The hair, the angle of the key, and water!” “My compliments to the learned sir.” “Thoroughly made me sweat, I must say.” In the same witty tone, Prosecutor Shikura echoed Mephisto’s line—yet in doing so, he found himself overwhelmed in two respects: by both the criminal and Hōsui. …That night, within the door of the room where Mrs. Dannenberg’s corpse had lain was concealed Dr. Day’s hidden-revealing door mechanism—a device where hair, expanding and contracting through the humidity of water poured into the keyhole, caused it to open and close automatically. However, that the water and hair necessary for it had been concealed within the ancient Chaldean incantations was one thing; what lay beyond that was an even greater surprise. It was that the angle of the tumbler—which mechanically activated the device—had been indicated in Mephisto’s line that breached the pentagram’s seal, with a precision akin to an engineering diagram, of all things. In that case, of course, the equation had to be pursued toward the next sylph—what was called the greatest enigma in the case. But on the face of Prosecutor Shikura, who had sought that answer, there appeared an excruciating disappointment.

“Then what connection does the sylph in the bell chamber have with that overtone performance? What about λ? And θ?” Prosecutor Shikura gasped out. At this, Hōsui abruptly shifted his demeanor and shook his head with tragic emphasis.

“Don’t be absurd. How could that possibly be some product of playful impulse? That reveals the devil’s most solemn face. Hey, isn’t that right, Prosecutor Shikura? Immersion and overwork invariably release a dreadful humor. Therefore, that sylph’s humor isn’t something so trivial that it could be crushed by mere logical pursuit like this. It must be something so wildly fantastical—so utterly unlike any water spirit—that it bears not the slightest resemblance. Moreover, that sylph was originally an invisible gaseous spirit to begin with.” He coldly dismissed this before turning to Kumajirō, his face brimming with murderous intensity. “Therefore, it lacks any distinguishing features whatsoever,” he declared.

“In other words, the culprit’s habit of sneering has ultimately dug their own grave.” “Try comparing the water spirit with the salamander that hasn’t undergone gender transformation.” “That answer will undoubtedly manifest as a criminal form completely inverted from the previous two precedents.” “The culprit will boldly reveal themselves without resorting to covert means and unleash the pinnacle of the Brackenberk Fire Technique.” “Of course, they would never attempt something like connecting the gunsight and trigger with a thread for reverse-direction automated firing, nor employ such crude methods as wrapping Ringer’s paper—which shrinks with moisture—around their finger to leave forged fingerprints on the trigger.” “It is, if you will, a chivalric spirit that has eliminated all underhanded stratagems.” “However, had we not made these preparations, eyes accustomed to the intricate and subtle techniques seen in the two previous cases would undoubtedly have been deceived.” “In other words, there lies the reverse implication the culprit intended... But this time, I’ll return their mockery with interest.”

Of course, that single statement undoubtedly provided a decisive guideline for future security measures. Yet, though Hōsui’s intellect now appeared to have wholly preempted the culprit’s next crime—with the salamander line seemingly poised to bring about the criminal’s ruin—when one looked back at the traces of schemes and stratagems that had been repeated between him and the culprit, anchoring everything in Hōsui’s deductions still felt dangerously premature. However, his pursuit of the Pentagram Incantation was by no means limited to that alone.

“However, I still believed there lay something more deeply inherent within that Pentagram Incantation—a core element.” “In other words, it’s connected to the very genesis of this case—or rather, perhaps something more profound than mere criminal motive.” “No, to put it in broader terms—beneath Kuroshikan’s subterranean depths lie multiple roots of secrets sprawling across the entire expanse.” “I wondered if it might be possible to discern the configuration of those areas where they intertwine and entangle like gnarled roots, driven by some motive.” “So I tried projecting that incantation from various angles as an experiment,” Hōsui said, his face finally betraying signs of fatigue as he recounted the grueling efforts he had expended throughout the previous day.

According to this, Hōsui—who believed the criminal to possess a kind of exhibitionist mania—had first aimed his analytical arrow at legend studies. He scoured even Anatole Le Braz’s *Brython Legendology* and Gould’s *Old Nick*, attempting to find within Central European death deity folklore something lurking in the depths of gender transformation that aligned with criminal motives. He also sought to understand the etymological shifts of fairy names through Schellerhauhen’s *Schwarzburg Castle* and other works. In short, he considered that if correspondence existed between water spirits and water demons, one might discover an uncanny dual-persona significance within the White Lady legend—said to be an incarnation of the goddess Freya (who, unified with Nikea or Nyx as dual avatars of good and evil, served as wife to the god Wodan). Furthermore, he attempted comparisons between the *Volksbuch*, Gottfried von Strassburg’s mystical poems, Hagen and Heisterbach’s writings, and Goethe’s *Faust* first draft against its later revisions—yet ultimately found that only in that initial draft did the earth spirits (namely Undine, Sylph, Salamander, and Kobold as nature’s great elemental family) manifest themselves in grand philosophical form, remaining indistinct in subsequent versions. However, Hōsui’s exposition on the Pentagram Incantation resembled nothing so much as an academic lecture. As a result, the crackling tension gradually dissipated, and between the two men basking in sunlight—their backs warmed—a drowsy haze began to drift like languid clouds. Prosecutor Shikura released a sardonic sigh and spoke.

"Let me just state this one thing—that our current position constitutes an ammunition tower." "At any rate, let us reserve such discussions for the rose garden." Yet in the next instant, a luminous intensity flashed across Hōsui's countenance—suddenly like an iron whip, a ferocious growl obliterated the languid atmosphere. He spoke while sweetly drawing two or three breaths from his tobacco pipe.

“This is no joke! How could such a magnificent demon king’s raiment possibly reside within ammunition towers or gun emplacements?” “Prosecutor Shikura, my magicohistorical investigation was not in vain after all.” “The true nature of that accursed Pentagram Incantation—which had tormented us so relentlessly—was discovered, of all places, within Louis XIII’s Secret Cabinet Archives.” “No, allow me to rephrase.” “Though maintaining an ambivalent stance at the time, it was none other than the renowned Cardinal Prime Minister Richelieu who confronted Gustavus Adolphus—Protector of the Protestants and King of Sweden.” “The very essence of this case lies wholly within those insidiously shadowed machinations.” “Now then, Prosecutor Shikura—are you acquainted with the contents of Richelieu’s Secret Cabinet?” “What of cryptanalysts like François Viète and Rossignol?” “What of Ochiriyu—alchemist-magus and assassin?” “In short, the crux lies with this Rogue Archbishop Ochiriyu... Ah, what an unnerving coincidence this proves!” “Both victim and culprit names appear among the fallen from the Battle of Lützen—the very engagement that felled the Dragon Cavalry King.”

Note: In 1631, Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, fought against the Catholic League in Prussia to protect German Protestants, capturing Leipzig and Lech before battling Wallenstein’s forces at Lützen. Though the battle ended in his victory, amidst the post-battle encampment he was assassinated by a sniper from a light cavalry unit orchestrated by Ochiriyu, and this assassin was shot dead on the spot by order of Marquis Sachs-Lowenberg. At that time, November 16, 1632.

In an instant, Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō found themselves swept into a maelstrom of bewilderment beyond their control. The culprit’s name—this alone meant the final curtain would fall upon the case. Yet even after exhaustively scouring criminal investigation histories East and West, could there ever have been a single myth-like precedent where historical facts pinpointed the perpetrator and resolved the incident? Precisely so—the two men stood aghast and confounded, with Prosecutor Shikura in particular sternly condemning Hōsui, his face flushed with vehement reproach, as the detective plunged ever deeper into this realm of impossibility.

“Oh, so it’s another bout of your pathological mental derangement?” “Let’s dispense with the jokes.” “If you claim this case can be solved with kabuto helmets and handgonnes, then by all means, let’s hear this method of proof unprecedented in history.” “Of course, it lacks complete legal value,” Hōsui said calmly, wafting smoke. “However, the most suspicious elements lie scattered among the many questions that have been confusing us.” “In other words—what if we were to discover a common factor in each of these elements, and furthermore, could synthesize and reduce them all to a single point?” “And should that come to pass, you wouldn’t dismiss it as mere happenstance,” he declared, banging the table to emphasize his point. “Now then, I have concluded that this case is a Judaic crime—what do you say to that!”

“Judaic— Ah, what are you saying?” Inspector Kumajirō squinted his bleary eyes and strained out a hoarse voice. He likely felt as though hearing the thunderous dissonant groan of strings. “You see, Inspector Kumajirō, have you ever seen Jews numbering from the Hebrew letter ℵ onward on a clock face?” “That is the creed of the Jews.” “To strictly execute the ritual codex and preserve the rites of the lost kingdom.” “Ah, am I not the same?” “Why would ethnology—of all fields—have ever been considered capable of solving this profoundly perplexing case?” “In any case, let’s proceed to calculate the parallax of those eerie red eyes using Prosecutor Shikura’s list of questions as our foundation,” Hōsui declared as the light in his eyes faded. He opened the notebook on the desk and began reading.

1. Regarding the Four Foreign Musicians

As for the reasons why Mrs. Dannenberg and four others came to Japan during their childhood—and regarding their utterly incomprehensible naturalization and household registration—not the slightest glimpse was permitted. It remained locked like an iron door. 2. Three Past Incidents of Kuroshikan In the same room where three suicides with unclear motives had occurred across separate occasions, Hōsui appeared to have completely abandoned observation. Regarding last year’s Sanzō Incident specifically—though it had been used as a means to intimidate Shinsai—was it truly an entirely separate matter from this case, as his view claimed? When Hōsui extracted Woods’ *Royal Heredity* from Kuroshikan’s library catalog, could it be that he intended to genetically analyze that legend-like sequence?

3. The Relationship Between Sanzō and Claude Digsby, Kuroshikan’s Construction Engineer Sanzō had prepared within the drug chamber what appeared to be a certain substance that should have been received from Digsby but never was. He left this intent preserved in a small vial. Furthermore, through deciphering the coffin shrine cross, Hōsui demonstrated Digsby’s cursed will. When synthesizing these two points, had some aberrant relationship not already formed between them prior to Kuroshikan’s construction?

4. Sanzō and the Witchgus Sorcery Sanzō renovated Digsby’s design in the fifth year after its construction. At that time, it is thought that the door of the Ancient Clock Room—applying Dr. Dei’s theories of hidden-revealing doors and Black Mirror Magic—came into being. However, even when considering Sanzō’s abnormal character, one cannot possibly believe those medieval heretical contraptions were limited to the two mentioned above. And might we not speculate that his burning of the grimoire immediately before his death has become the root cause of today’s tangled chaos?

5. The Atmosphere Preceding the Incident

Following the naturalization of the four, the drafting of the will, and culminating in Sanzō’s suicide, an acrid miasma akin to a clinging mist suddenly began to permeate the air. And it is said that as the new year began, the atmosphere grew increasingly hostile. It would be hasty to conclude that the cause lies solely in the psychological conflict surrounding the will.

6. Circumstances Surrounding the Divine Inquisition Tribunal

When the corpse candle was lit, Mrs. Dannenberg cried out “Sanzō!” and collapsed. Moreover, at that moment, Ekisuke reportedly witnessed an uncanny human figure on the protruding eave of the adjacent room. However, none of the attendees had left the room. And on the ground directly below, two shoe prints that defied the principles of human anatomy were imprinted, while at their convergence point lay scattered fragments of photographic dry plates—their purpose utterly unfathomable. Even though these four mysteries were temporally proximate, each possessed an isolated nature and could not possibly converge.

7. The Dannenberg Incident The corpse luminescence and wounds carved with the Furuyatsuki crest— It presented a truly transcendent spectacle. Hōsui noted that the wounds had been inflicted in barely one or two minutes. His theory posited that these dual phenomena corresponded to the trajectory of a Western orange containing 0.5 grams of potassium cyanide—a dosage that would render poisoning nearly impossible—into the victim’s oral cavity. This reinforcing effect, he concluded, manifested through making the implausible plausible—the very crystallization of that principle. Yet even accepting his observations as flawless, proving them and identifying the culprit would amount to nothing less than divine intervention. Furthermore, no remarkable behavior had been observed among the household members, and the orange’s path of arrival remained wholly obscure.

Thérèse’s spring-driven automaton— In her death throes, Mrs. Dannenberg had recorded upon a scrap of paper the name of Madame Sanzō—this woman reviled as a malevolent spirit. Beneath the rug at the scene lay the doll’s footprints vividly imprinted in water from an opened door. Yet though equipped with a special sound-producing mechanism, Kuga Chinako—one of the attendants—testified she had heard no bell-like tones from it. While Hōsui retained lingering doubts about the room where the automaton had been kept—doubts even he couldn’t fully substantiate—one might say the boundary between refutation and confirmation rested solely upon that slender thread of exquisite tremolo.

8. Consideration of the Apocalyptic Diagram

That Hōsui presumed it to be an idiosyncrasy diagram was an astute observation. For did not the diagram of Ekisuke—sandwiched between the upper and lower ends of the body itself—also manifest in his postmortem phenomena? However, why would the manner of Nobuko’s collapse evoke that of Mrs. Serena’s? Furthermore, even if Hōsui’s assertion—that there existed an unknown half-leaf in the Apocalyptic Diagram, inferred from hieroglyphics—was logically sound, it remained sorely lacking in plausibility, leaving us no choice but to consider it a product of his deranged mind.

9. Faust’s Pentagram Incantation (abridged)

10. The Kawanabe Ekisuke Incident

Hōsui’s elucidation of the cause of death simultaneously pinpointed the perpetrator’s location at the site where they had forced [the victim] into the armor. When tracing this temporally, only Nobuko lacked an alibi. Moreover, she had collapsed while clutching the armor-piercing dagger that had gouged her throat—and in the final passage of the sutra song, overtones that defied rational explanation had resonated. Beyond this lay what might be termed the crux of doubt: whether the perpetrator had slain Ekisuke as an accomplice or not—a question that permitted no facile conjecture. Ultimately, even when deducing from circumstances transcending convoluted twists and grotesque anomalies, all converged upon the conclusion that Nobuko’s collapse constituted the culprit’s theatrical artifice. Yet to render impartial judgment, it remained incontrovertible that Kamiya Nobuko—alone and above all others—stood as the individual most warranting suspicion.

11. The Confinement of Tsutako Oshikane in the Ancient Clock Room

This was truly the most shocking of shocks. Moreover, what Hōsui had presumed to be a corpse had been inexplicably insulated against temperature changes and lay in a comatose state. Of course, while there was no need to belabor the obvious necessity of investigating why she had left her own home to reside with her family—regarding the crucial fact that the culprit had refrained from killing Tsutako—Hōsui harbored deep misgivings and anticipated an elaborate trap. However, the shadowy figure Ekisuke witnessed on the protruding eave of the adjacent room during the Divine Inquisition Tribunal could absolutely not have been Tsutako. Because at precisely 8:20 PM that night, Tagō had rotated the Ancient Clock Room's dial mechanism and secured the iron door.

12. Who is the person said to have intruded into Mrs. Krivov’s room at 12:30 AM that night? Here lies Ekisuke’s testimony—the distinctly specter-like, invisible figure that had appeared on the protruding eave in the evening also manifested in Mrs. Krivov’s chamber at midnight. According to Mrs. Krivov’s account, it was indeed a male, and all characteristics—though differing in height—pointed to Hatatarō. If that is the case, then the signature that Nobuko affixed at the moment of her awakening bears the surname Furuyatsuki. If we interpret this as a subconscious act with precedent in the Gutenberg Incident, then the sylph who struck down Nobuko most strongly suggests Hatatarō’s form. And is it not within this contradiction between that assumption and Nobuko’s conspicuously displayed state of collapse that this case’s greatest difficulty lies concealed?

13. Consideration of Motives

Everything came down to circumstances surrounding the inheritance. The first key point was that due to the naturalization of four foreigners, Hatatarō’s unconditional inheritance had become impossible. Next, attention had to be paid to the fact that the only other blood relative besides Hatatarō—namely, Tsutako Oshikane—had been excluded. Therefore, while an irreparable rift had already formed between Hatatarō and the three foreigners, above all else, this one major contradiction remained impossible to resolve. In other words, those with motives lacked any phenomena that should arouse suspicion, while conversely, those who evoked the image of a culprit like Nobuko showed not even a shadow of motive.

Upon finishing reading, Hōsui spread it out on the desk and first placed his fingertip on Article Seven (Corpse Luminescence and Crest-Shaped Wounds).

By then, the sunlight streaming in through the transom window had risen to the area directly above the Thames River in "The Great Fire of London" painting, beginning to stir the black smoke overhead with ominous vitality. Even as it was, Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō sat with cracked lips and parched saliva, doing nothing but dream of the moment when the preposterous, topsy-turvy world Hōsui had conjured would make one grand dragonfly’s abrupt reversal and shed its wings of delusion. In that murderously tense air, Hōsui lit a fresh cigarette and slowly began to speak.

“By the way, regarding that mysterious corpse luminescence and crest-shaped wounds from the beginning—the problem still lies in their circular argumentative form. By what route did that Western orange make its way into Mrs. Dannenberg’s mouth—as long as that journey remains unclear, I believe an empirical explanation remains impossible. However, a criminal superstition resembling the occurrence of that corpse luminescence and crest-shaped wounds is recorded in the famous *Anatomical Evidence Theory of Jewish Crime* (by Goldfeldt),” he said as he pulled the volume from the shelf—but it contained only brief illustrative examples of Jewish criminal customs.

One night in October 1819, a tragic incident occurred in which a wealthy farmer residing in Königgrätz, Bohemia, was pierced through the heart on his bed, after which a fire broke out in the room, burning away the corpse along with everything else. A passerby came forward and testified that at exactly 11:30 PM that night, they had witnessed the victim making the sign of the cross through a slightly parted window curtain. This established the time of the crime as after 11:30 PM, unexpectedly providing an alibi for the Jewish miller—who had been considered the prime suspect with the strongest motive. Thus, the case became shrouded in impenetrable mystery. However, six months later, Prague auxiliary gendarme Dönnicke finally exposed the culprit's scheme, leading to the arrest of none other than that initial suspect—the Jewish miller. The key to discovery lay in a uniquely Jewish criminal custom derived from an interpretation of Hammurabi's Code. It originated from the superstition that illuminating a corpse or wound with surrounding candles would eternally conceal the crime. Needless to say, those very candles caused the conflagration.

Ah, what a lackluster example Hōsui had presented in that opening scene! However, when he subsequently supplemented it with his own insights and refined the answer, a light began to shine—one that threatened to breach even a corner of that circular reasoning. "Now then, that single passage alone leaves Gendarme Dönnicke’s line of reasoning entirely unclear, but I attempted an analysis of it. "The number of candles said to have surrounded the corpse was actually five. "Moreover, to make the corpse appear to cross itself, they couldn’t simply surround it with candles. Instead, they had to arrange four short ones around it—each shaved on one side like split bamboo—and place at the center a single candle stripped of half its wax lengthwise, leaving only a long wick. Then they had to enclose that configuration. "Because when the four arms of a weather vane are arranged in alternating directions, what phenomenon occurs? "In this case, they arranged the diagonally shaved sides in alternating directions, so when lit, the heated wax vapor would rise along the incline. "Therefore, since each had a different shaved direction, they created an upward airflow above them. "This rotated the long central wick, producing through its shadow an illusion of the corpse’s hand making the sign of the cross. "As we pursue the origins of the Corpse Luminescence and Crest-Shaped Wounds, I can’t help feeling we must trace our way back to the Divine Inquisition Tribunal. "Might not Dr. Sanzō’s phantom—which appeared solely to Mrs. Dannenberg—be concealed within those candles lit in Königgrätz of Bohemia? "You know, Prosecutor Shikura"—Hōsui’s face momentarily clouded with something resembling confusion—"mathematical elements often emerge from coincidence. "For constants fundamentally begin as hypothetical starting points—only afterward do we determine their immutable factors." He pressed onward, revealing a strange geographical correspondence regarding the Corpse Luminescence. However, such isolated contrasts ultimately served only to deepen the confusion.

“Next, I turned my attention to the phenomenon of corpse luminescence associated with Catholic saint-monks. However, upon reading Avlino’s *Collection of Saintly Miracles*, one finds records of four individuals whose corpses emitted light posthumously during the five-year period from 1625 to 1630—when conflicts between old and new believers were most intense: Dovater of Schönberg (Moravia), Grogoff of Zittau (Prussia), Arnoldin of Freistadt (Upper Austria), and Muscovites of Plauen (Saxony). Inspector Kumajirō, therein lies a coincidence too consistent to be mere chance—because when you connect those four locations, they form an almost precise rectangle that encircles Bohemia where the Königgrätz Incident occurred.” Hōsui tilted his head back to gaze at the ceiling with a feeble sigh. “Ah—what could the actual number be? The more I speak, the less clear things become. However, I do think that the Jewish custom of illuminating corpses could serve as the perpetrator’s superstitious representation.”

However, upon hearing this, Prosecutor Shikura’s last vestige of hope was utterly extinguished. With a sneer that twisted his mouth, he took out Walter Hart’s (a monk of Westminster Abbey) Gustavus Adolphus from the bookshelf behind him. Then, as he idly flipped through the pages, he apparently discovered something—turning the opened section toward Hōsui, he placed his fingertip on its upper edge. It was, in truth, Prosecutor Shikura’s scathing sarcasm—a biting satirical jab at Hōsui’s deranged intellectual wanderings.

(The inferior quality of Duke Wilhelm of Weimar’s troops caused him to lose the competition against Arnheim, thereby delaying the king’s support.) Moreover, even when harshly criticized for this within Neuenhohen Castle, Duke Wilhelm did not so much as change his expression.)

Not content with that alone, Prosecutor Shikura persisted with a tenacious attitude, spewing venom. "Ah, what lamentable book titles—or rather, this must be that study-bound delirium unique to you." "Of course, that astonishing phenomenon amounts to nothing more than child’s play." "How can this be called a matter of profundity? It holds no more value than a frivolous excursion." "Now then, if you can’t provide precise stage directions for the bell striker room scene, I’ll have you stop this lecture of yours any further."

“But you see, Prosecutor Shikura,” Hōsui responded to the sneer with a composed smile. “If the culprit weren’t Jewish, how could they have induced waxy flexibility in Nobuko at that time? At that moment, Nobuko stiffened like a statue. Therefore, under those circumstances, the position of the rotating chair naturally ceases to be an issue.” (Note) (Note) A type of catalepsy. This seizure abruptly robs consciousness, stiffens the patient’s entire body, and renders all voluntary movement impossible. However, it offers no resistance to external manipulation; like a pliable wax or rubber doll, the limbs remain indefinitely in whatever position they are placed. This is why it bears the intriguing clinical designation “waxy flexibility.”

“Waxy flexibility⁉” Even Prosecutor Shikura, faced with this, had no choice but to violently shake the table and shout. “Nonsense! Even your sophistry becomes absurd when taken to extremes. Hōsui, that’s the rarest of rare diseases!” “Of course, it’s undoubtedly a rare disease found only in literature,” Hōsui initially conceded, yet his voice carried a mocking undertone.

“But if one could artificially create such a rare neural arrangement—what then? By the way, are you familiar with Duchenne’s term ‘muscle sense loss’? When you force a hysteric patient’s eyes closed during a seizure, it becomes indistinguishable from waxy flexibility—the entire body enters a rigid state. To put it plainly,” he declared with startling conviction, “without invoking a certain custom unique to the Jewish people, performing such pathological theatrics would be impossible.”

Kumajirō had been silently smoking tobacco until then, but suddenly raised his face and—

"Ah, Nobuko and hysteria..." "Well, your clairvoyant eye is quite something." "However, I’d like you to shift the focus away from asylums to other avenues," he said with uncharacteristic wit. Moreover, Hōsui performed an unthinkable pathological dissection on Kuroshikan Mansion itself, relentlessly emphasizing its latent potential. "Oh my, Inspector Kumajirō—precisely because this incident occurred at Kuroshikan Mansion must you pay attention." "Crime does not spring solely from motives." "Intellectual murders in particular often stem from warped introspection." "Naturally this manifests as sadism... Yet there exist cases arising not from emotion but from sensory delusions persisting under constant suppression." "In this fortress-like gloom of Kuroshikan Mansion, I perceive abundant immoral—nay demonic—capacities." "Now then—how might that solemn-faced trickster deform human neural arrangements? Consider this apt example," he continued, shedding his seemingly arbitrary reasoning by presenting evidence. "This occurred in early-century Göttingen—a sensitive Westphalian lad named Otto Bremer enrolled in a Dominican academy." "But that Bonevé-style structure with its oppressive low vaults soon corroded his adolescent nerves." "Initially, drastic light contrasts between indoors and outdoors showed him uncanny afterimages." "The final descent into auditory hallucinations came when trains passing his window seemed endlessly chanting 'Resend Blehmel'—'Mad Bremer.'" "When his alarmed father withdrew him home, Bremer narrowly escaped mental collapse." "That itself verged on miraculous." "The moment he quit the dormitory, visions and voices ceased—his healthy youth swiftly restored." "Now Inspector—you’re no penal scholar—but certain prison architectures breed confinement psychosis while others prevent it entirely."

Hōsui took out fresh tobacco and drew a breath there, yet still did not descend from his tower of knowledge; he then proceeded to an even more severe illustrative case.

“The era is the mid-16th century, during the reign of Philip II, but this case might be called an unusual specimen of licentious cruelty—a deviant form of bloodlust.” “In the Spanish Inquisition at Seville, there was a young monk named Foscolo who served as a junior inquisitor.” “However, not only were his interrogation methods remarkably inept, but he even developed terror toward the heretic-burning processions held on All Saints’ Day. Consequently, Deputy Inquisitor General Espinoza had no choice but to send him back to his ancestral estate in Santonia.” “Yet one or two months later, Espinoza received a letter from this same Foscolo. When he saw the mechanized mattiola—a medieval Italian Carnival-season punishment notorious for its bestial cruelty—depicted on the enclosed sketch, he could not help but gasp in shock.”

“In Seville’s public execution grounds, crosses and instruments of torture stood side by side. Yet if God were to kindle hell’s hidden flames and will them to blaze eternally without end, He must first banish the Islamic-style lofty arches from that execution building. Since arriving in Santonia, I have dwelt in an ancient shadowed manor left by Goths of old. Truly, this manor possesses singular properties. That is to say, it itself embodies a philosophy that has deeply contemplated humanity’s manifold sufferings; here I have combined and compared diverse tortures, until at last I became a consummate master of that art—so it declares.”

"Tell me, Inspector Kumajirō—what force could have drawn forth such a ghastly soliloquy? Why did Foscolo's bloodlust blossom not amidst Seville's racks and iron maidens, but within Biscay Bay's idyllic vistas?" Hōsui tempered his fervent tone. "I insist we cannot disregard this chasm between the Inquisition's architecture and Santonia's estate—not in this case." He then sought to expose the dreadful sorcery embedded in Kuroshikan's design by mapping these historical parallels onto its walls.

“In fact, even though I’ve only been there once—and even under such gloomy weather—I noticed various abnormal phenomena emanating from Kuroshikan Mansion’s architectural style.” “Of course, such sensory illusions possess a mysterious power that eludes capture.” “In other words, remaining perpetually trapped within them ultimately gives rise to pathological traits.” “So Inspector Kumajirō, I might as well state it plainly.” “The residents of Kuroshikan Mansion—though the degree may vary—must, in the strictest sense, be psychoneurotics.”

In every human psyche's hidden corners—varying in intensity though they may be—neurotic elements must inevitably lurk. It was in excavating these and arraying them upon the focal plane of criminal phenomena that Hōsui's investigative method proved peerless. Yet in this case, were not Nobuko's hysterical paroxysms and Judaic-patterned crimes fundamentally irreconcilable—so estranged they could never converge? (Now whereas Waldstein's left flank had deployed far more extensively than the king's right wing, [the king] ordered Prince Wilhelm to marshal the battle lines. At that juncture, the Prince again blundered, forestalling the cannons' deployment.)

The prosecutor had continued his silent irony—still likening Hōsui to the ponderous Prince Wilhelm—but Inspector Kumajirō opened his mouth as though he could endure it no longer.

“Anyway, whether it’s Rothschild or Rosenfeld, just let me see this Jew’s face.” “And you don’t mean to write off Nobuko’s fit as mere happenstance, do you?” “Don’t be ridiculous. Then why did Nobuko play that morning hymn three times over?” Hōsui countered sharply. “Listen well, Inspector Kumajirō. That woman played the sutra hymn three times on a carillon—an instrument demanding exceptional physical strength.” “Under such conditions, even without invoking Mossou’s ‘Fatigue,’ you create ideal circumstances for inducing neurotic episodes or hypnotic suggestions.” “Therein lay the mechanism that plunged her into that trance-like state.”

"Then what kind of monster are you talking about? After all, the bell tower’s death register doesn’t contain a single name of human spirits." "Far from being a monster—it isn’t even human, of course. That is the carillon’s keyboard." Hōsui produced a sharp, decorative note and once again caught the two off guard. "Now, this is an optical illusion. For example, take a sheet of paper with a vertical slit shaped like a narrow rectangle and move a circular piece of paper behind it. As the circle moves violently, gradually transforming into an ellipse—precisely the same phenomenon manifests in the two-tiered keyboard. Suppose there were frequently used lower-tier keys here. If you peer through the stationary upper keys at those constantly moving lower ones, both ends of the lower keys will appear to warp toward the side disappearing behind the upper keys, gradually growing thinner. In other words, when such a perspective-based optical illusion occurs, a mind already slightly dazed by fatigue becomes wholly absorbed into it. Of course, that induces specific episodes. So Inspector Kumajirō—if you’ll allow me to be blunt—once we identify whoever ordered Nobuko to repeat it three times then, that individual will undoubtedly be revealed as the culprit."

“But your theory isn’t the least bit profound,” Inspector Kumajirō pressed severely, seizing the moment. “First of all, what caused Nobuko’s eyelids to close at that time? The process by which her entire body was reduced to waxy flexibility—like a wax doll—remains unexplained.” Hōsui wore a magnanimous smile that seemed to lament his counterpart’s lack of originality, then immediately began drawing a diagram on a scrap of paper atop the desk and launched into his explanation.

"This is what's called the 'cat's forelimb'—the knotting method unique to Jewish criminals." "So Inspector Kumajirō, within this single knotting method lay the means to create a motor unconsciousness that defied the rotating chair’s motion—a state akin to waxy flexibility." "When you pull the lower string as shown here, the knot gradually descends." "However, when the object caught in the knot comes loose, the string snaps taut into a single strand." "Therefore, after measuring in advance both the number of keys to be used and their initial fastening height, the culprit had tied a bundle of armor-piercing daggers above the string connecting those keys to the bell striker." "As the performance progressed, these daggers rotated while their knots steadily descended." "And as Nobuko played in her dazed state—around the second repetition of the hymn—before her eyes descended those blades, their glinting edges vanishing like paper streamers in water art, alternating between horizontal and vertical orientations." "In other words, flickering light stroked vertically down her eyelids." "This dazzling manipulation—what we call Liégeois' technique—forces closed eyes in hypnotized women." "Thus when her eyelids shut, her body—stripped of motor consciousness like waxen flexibility—instantly lost balance and toppled backward like a statue." "And at that precise moment, someone kicked the keys and strings from behind, dislodging the daggers from their knots onto the floor." "Of course, Nobuko sank into deep coma as her seizure abated," Hōsui countered against the prosecutor's venomous glare before suddenly contorting his face in anguish.

“But wait—why did Nobuko clutch that armor-piercing dagger? And why was that overtone performance—the very apex of grotesque metamorphosis—provoked in the first place? To such realms beyond imagination, not even a finger’s breadth can yet reach.” Though he first let out a frail sigh, his haggard expression shifted threefold until at last he proclaimed with triumphant vigor: “No—I was computing Sirius’ parallax! There’s delta and xi too! If only I could inductively synthesize all these into a singular nexus.”

Then the air grew unnaturally heated. That resolution drew near was something the two men—long accustomed to Hōsui’s methods—could now physically perceive. Inspector Kumajirō fixed his gaze with eerie intensity, thrusting his face forward as he demanded answers.

“Then frankly point out Kuroshikan Mansion’s monster. So who exactly is this Jew you keep talking about?”

“That would be Nicholas Brahe of the light cavalry,” Hōsui began, stating the unexpected name. “Now, the opportunity for that man to approach Gustavus Adolphus arose when the king entered Landestadt City. At that time, near the Jewish Grotto Gate, he encountered thunder and subdued his wildly galloping horse.” “Now, Shikura, above all else I want you to examine Brahe’s bold military exploits,” Hōsui continued, taking up Hart’s *Gustavus Adolphus* that the prosecutor had been toying with and pointing to a page near the conclusion of the chapter on the Battle of Lützen. Simultaneously, a look of astonishment flashed across both their faces. Prosecutor Shikura let out an “Ugh” of a groan and inadvertently dropped the tobacco he had been holding in his mouth.

The battle raged for nine hours. The Swedish forces suffered three thousand casualties, while the allied forces fled with seven thousand remaining. Yet the night’s darkness thwarted pursuit, and that evening, the wounded soldiers lay upon the earth and slept all night long. At dawn, frost fell, and all those who could not escape were slain by the cold. Prior to his death several days earlier, Brahe had accompanied Colonel Ohem to inspect the Four Windmills site, where the combat had been most intense, when he was identified as the target of a fierce sniper. It is said: Count Berthold Wallenstein; Duke of Fulda and Grand Abbot Pappenheim...

When it reached that point, Inspector Kumajirō jerked back as if struck in the face. And he found himself unable to speak.

Prosecutor Shikura remained motionless for a while, but eventually began to read the next passage in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.

“Duke Dietrichstein Dannenberg, Commander Serena of the Duchy of Amalte, ah, Judge Levez of Freiberg…” He audibly swallowed his saliva and turned his clouded eyes toward Hōsui. “In any case, Mr. Hōsui, do explain this fairy garden spectacle you’ve presented. “Frankly, I can’t digest the casting logic—why must Kuroshikan Mansion’s massacre chronicle unfold through this Lützen scenario framework? “And perhaps—though this may be mere needless worry— “I believe the culprit’s signature lies in either Hatatarō—whose name remains unlisted here—or Krivov.”

“Yeah, that’s an exceedingly devilish joke,” Hōsui began. “The more one thinks about it, the more horrifying it becomes. First of all, the author who orchestrated this grand spectacle is by no means the culprit themselves. In other words, that plot framework constitutes the very essence of the pentagram incantation.” His voice lowered ominously. “In the Lützen scenario, what was originally the relationship between light cavalryman Brahe and his progenitor—the assassin-alchemist Occulié—transforms into a ‘culprit + X’ formula when applied to this case.” Though deferring interpretation of this sorcerous correspondence until after resolving the incident, Hōsui’s eyes then blazed with spectral intensity as he denounced Kuroshikan Mansion’s demonic essence.

“Now then, once it becomes evident that Brahe was an assassin dispatched by Occulié, we must clarify his true nature.” “This constitutes a double betrayal.” “The assassination of King Gustavus—who maintained relative tolerance toward Jews while opposing Catholics—wasn’t this dual treachery? Benefiting from Protestant favor while betraying his own people.” “Though absent from Hart’s historical records, Dava—biographer of Prussia’s Frederick II—reveals Light Cavalryman Brahe to be a Polish Jew born in Plock.” “And her true identity is Lurie Krofmark Krivov!”

At that moment, everything seemed to freeze in stillness. Finally, the mask had been ripped away—this mad theatrical performance was over. Hōsui’s investigative method, ever mindful of aestheticism, had once again crafted here a conclusion of supreme brilliance, adorned with the religious wars from pyrotechnics’ early days. Yet the prosecutor still wore an expression of lingering doubt, vacantly staring at Hōsui’s face while letting his tobacco hang slack from his lips. Then Hōsui, with an ironic smile curling his lips, flipped through Hart’s historical volume and thrust the relevant page before the prosecutor.

(After King Gustavus’s demise, when Wilhelm, Duke of Weimar’s vanguard musketeers appeared in Hoyerswerda, his ambitions toward Silesia first became clear.) “Now, Prosecutor Shikura,” Hōsui began, bathing in sunlight that dyed the black smoke of the great fire painting behind him crimson like flames, “Wilhelm of Weimar was in truth a sarcastic, derisive monster. Yet even the walls Krivov has erected pose no impregnable fortress against my battering ram.” With this declaration, he placed Krivov upon the analytical dissection table and began his fragmented interpretation.

“First, I observed Krivov from an ethnological perspective. Of course, even without citing works by Israel Cohen or Chamberlain, I can assert that her red hair, freckles, and nasal bridge shape each unmistakably indicate characteristics of Amorite Jews—the Jewish archetype closest to Europeans. However, what makes this even more certain is what could be called their creed of restoring the Jewish Kingdom—a belief unique to the Jewish people. Though Jews often use that shape in cufflinks or collar studs, the hexagram of the Shield of David appears in Krivov’s brooch as a six-petaled Tudor rose.”

"But your line of reasoning is exceedingly vague," Prosecutor Shikura objected with a displeased expression. "Indeed, it does feel like I'm looking at rare insect specimens, but you haven't touched upon any substantive elements of Krivov herself." "I want to hear the throbbing of that woman’s heart from your lips and smell the scent of her breath."

“That would be ‘The Birch Forest’—from Gustav Falke’s poem,” Hōsui casually declared, playfully juggling once more the cryptic remark he had previously uttered before three foreigners. “Now then, first I want you to recall that apocalyptic diagram.” “As you know, Mrs. Krivov’s eyes are covered with a cloth fragment.” “Therefore, interpreting that diagram as illustrating a specific constitutional predisposition—as I’ve maintained—the corpse-like figure depicted there must undoubtedly represent the state Mrs. Krivov is most prone to fall into.” “However, Shikura—being struck down with one’s eyes covered—that is tabes dorsalis.” “Moreover, the relatively inconspicuous symptoms of the first stage can persist for over a dozen years.” “Yet among these, the most prominent symptom is none other than Romberg’s sign.” “When one’s eyes are covered or when darkness suddenly envelops the surroundings, the body loses its center of gravity, causing them to stagger.” “That is precisely what occurred in the corridor at midnight that night.” “In other words, Mrs. Krivov opened the partition door and entered that corridor to reach Mrs. Dannenberg’s room.” “As you know, wall lamps—carved into rectangular niches—illuminate both sides.” “To avoid seeing her own reflection, she first twisted the switch beside the partition door.” “Of course, the moment darkness fell, Romberg’s sign—which had gone unnoticed until then—inevitably manifested.” “Yet as she stumbled repeatedly in this manner, countless afterimages of rectangular wall lamps began overlapping across her retina.” “Well, Shikura—having said this much, I needn’t elaborate further.” “When Mrs. Krivov finally regained her footing, what do you suppose she saw in the darkness spread before her eyes?” “Those innumerable clustered afterimages of wall lamps were none other than that eerie birch forest Falke sang of.” “And Mrs. Krivov herself has confessed to it.”

“Don’t be absurd. I never thought you’d see through that woman’s ventriloquism,” Kumajirō said weakly, discarding his tobacco and laying bare the disillusionment in his heart. To this, Hōsui smiled quietly and said.

“However, Kumajirō, perhaps I didn’t hear anything at that time. I was simply focused on observing Mrs. Krivov’s hands.” “What? That woman’s hands?” This time, it was the prosecutor who was shocked. “But if we’re talking about the thirty-two marks of Buddha statues or the ritual procedures of esoteric Buddhism, I believe you were once told about such matters at Jakko-an (the author’s previous work, Murder in the Dream Temple).”

“No, even when speaking of sculpted hands, I’m referring to Rodin’s ‘The Cathedral,’” declared Hōsui with undiminished theatricality, hurling this absurdly eccentric statement like a kemari ball. “At that moment when I mentioned the birch forest, Mrs. Krivov gently pressed her hands together as if in prayer and placed them on the table. “Of course, while not as precise as the pure three-leaf mudra of esoteric Buddhist incantations, it at least approached Rodin’s *The Cathedral*. “Particularly, as her right palm’s ring finger was bent in an extremely unstable form, I—who had been ceaselessly attempting to extract some psychological expression from Mrs. Krivov—could not help but raise a triumphant cry upon seeing it. Because whereas Mrs. Serena’s hands had not so much as twitched at the mention of ‘Birch Forest,’ when I subsequently uttered the next line—‘yet he does not dream’—hinting at the man’s meaning, a strange tremor arose in that unstable ring finger, and Mrs. Krivov’s demeanor abruptly transformed into one of visible agitation. “The contradictions and inconsistencies manifesting there must have been so inverted as to defy any governing law. “After all, unless released from tension, how could the agitation of that moment have failed to manifest externally?” He paused mid-sentence, unlatched the window, and continued speaking as the thickly accumulated smoke began to sway and drift outward. “However, between ordinary people and those with abnormal nerves, there are cases where the psychological expressions manifested in the peripheral nerves are entirely inverted. “For example, during a hysterical episode, if left unattended, the patient’s limbs may move about freely in random directions, but once their attention is directed to a particular area, the movement in that part comes to an abrupt halt. “In other words, what manifested in Mrs. Krivov was the opposite case—she had likely been striving not to let her inner turmoil show through her actions. “However, from my utterance of ‘he does not dream—’ the tension was accidentally released, causing what had been suppressed to erupt all at once, thereby creating the leisure for her to direct her attention to her own palms. “It goes without saying that only then did the ring finger of her right palm begin to exhibit instability. “And that’s how that inexplicable tremor was induced. “Now, Shikura, that woman confessed to the Birch Forest—visible only in darkness—with but a single finger, and without a word being exchanged. “In that descending curve spanning ‘Birch Forest—he does not dream,’ how thoroughly Mrs. Krivov’s psyche is laid bare! “Shikura, didn’t you once refer to our poetic exchanges as some Trouvère-esque battle of wits? “But far from that—it’s a refutation aimed at psychologist Münsterberg, no, at Harvard’s entire experimental psychology laboratory. “Even if they bring out those ostentatious electrical instruments and recorders, they would likely have negligible effect on a cold-blooded criminal. “Moreover, if such mechanical psychological tests were to be applied to individuals who—like physiologist Weber—can voluntarily arrest their heartbeats, or like Fontana freely contract their irises at will, what on earth would become of those tests? “However, I merely made someone move a finger and excavated with a single poetic phrase, then even crafted falsehoods through verse to lay bare the criminal’s psyche.”

“What? Using poetry to create falsehoods⁉” Kumajirō challenged, gulping audibly. Hōsui gave a slight shrug and flicked the ash from his tobacco. His exposition was so thorough it seemed the tragedy might already be over. First, Hōsui established that Jewish people possessed a unique self-defensive propensity for habitual lying. Beginning with Michal’s ancient tale from the Mishneh Torah Codex—Saul’s daughter who deceived to protect David—he traced this through history to modern elder councils in Jewish quarters that orchestrated mutual perjury to protect criminal compatriots. Finally, Hōsui declared this a racial characteristic. Yet this very propensity for falsehood now revealed an intimate connection with a wind spirit.

(Note) Michal, daughter of King Saul of Israel, upon learning that her father intended to kill her husband David, devised a plan to help him escape. When this was discovered, Michal falsely answered: “David declared that if he did not release me, he would slay you—therefore I released him out of fear.” The daughter of Saul’s sin has been forgiven. "Thus, the Jewish people grant a kind of religious tolerance to it." "In other words, the lies necessary for self-defense must be permitted—so to speak." "However, of course, I am not trying to judge Krivov based solely on that." "I utterly despise statistical numbers." "But here’s the thing:" "That woman fabricated an entire fictional account and claimed that a person she hadn't even seen had invaded the bedroom." “Indeed, that alone is a fact.”

“Ah, so that was the falsehood?” The prosecutor jerked up his eyebrows and exclaimed. “So you learned that at some religious council, did you?”

“How could it be something as prosaic as that?” Hōsui retorted vehemently. “By the way, there exists a work titled *The Psychology of Testimony* by legal psychologist Stern. However, within it, that professor from the University of Breslau issues this warning to examining magistrates: ‘Be cautious with the language used during interrogations.’ Because those who can be called highly intelligent criminals are adept at the art of instantly synthesizing individual words from what their opponent says to construct an entire fabricated narrative—so he says.’ So at that time, I attempted to turn those molecular associations and binding forces against themselves. And then, as a test, I posed a question about wind spirits to Levez. Now, why is that, you ask? Because when I previously investigated the library, I discovered that collections by Pope, Falke, Lenau, and others had been recently perused. In other words, there are descriptions about wind spirits in Pope’s *The Rape of the Lock* that are perfectly suited to constructing falsehoods. Of course, what I was seeking was the criminal’s innate qualities. Gathering all impressions of wind spirits within that and giving form to contemplative figures—that is the world of this farce. Because I believed that rhapsodist would never be satisfied merely sketching a single nostalgic scene.” At that moment, I held my breath. “And from within Krivov’s sinister and brutal testimony, I finally managed to grasp the criminal’s form,” Hōsui declared, his face now bearing a look of fatigue that seemed to recall the fervor of that time. However, he continued his argument and finally wielded the analytical blade upon a single line from *The Rape of the Lock* in his attempt to identify Mrs. Krivov as the culprit.

“However, the solution is remarkably simple.” “In the second canto of *The Rape of the Lock*, four small fairies—subordinates of the wind spirit—appear.” “The first of these is Crispissa, tasked with combing hair.” “This corresponds to where a suspicious man bound Mrs. Krivov’s hair during her washing—” “Next comes Zephyretta—the gentle breeze—as described when the man retreated toward the door.” “Third is Momentilla—that which moves moment by moment—matching Mrs. Krivov’s attempt to observe her bedside clock upon waking.” “Lastly, Brilliante—the shining one—was invoked by Mrs. Krivov when she claimed the man’s eyes ‘gleamed like pearls’—” Yet another angle emerges: recognizing “pearl” as an archaic term for cataract brings to mind Oshikane Tsutako—who left the stage due to a right-eye cataract. Still, one element conclusively solidified Mrs. Krivov’s psychological profile. “Those four factors converged at a single point… none other than her unique pathology—tabes dorsalis.” “Mrs. Krivov reported feeling her nightgown fastened around her chest upon waking—” But considering this disease’s hallmark symptom—a phantom ring constricting the chest—her embellished statement likely stemmed from daily sensory experience. “That sensory illusion forms the bedrock constant sustaining her fabrication.”

Kumajirō sat motionless, sunk in thought as he smoked his tobacco for some time, but eventually turned his eyes toward Hōsui, their gaze now thick with reproach. However, he spoke in an uncharacteristically quiet manner. "I see, I understand your theory well enough. But more than anything, what we need is even a single piece of legally valid evidence. To put it another way - not Sirius' maximum parallax, but the actual substance composing it. In other words, we require your definitive explanation for each criminal phenomenon."

“In that case,” Hōsui nodded with a satisfied look and took out a single photograph from the desk drawer. “I suppose it’s time to play my final trump card. Now, this photograph shows the Zodiac Signs rosette window above the bell striker chamber—but I realized something the moment I glanced at it. This too, like the coffin niche cross, is a secret cipher left by designer Claude Digsby. Because typically, the First Point of Aries—where the vernal equinox resides—is positioned at the circle’s center, but here Capricorn has replaced it. Moreover, I considered that even these zigzagging gaps crisscrossing vertically and horizontally must hold some meaning beyond merely dampening the bell striker’s reverberations.” “However, Inspector Kumajirō,” he continued, “the Zodiac Signs have always been nothing more than commonplace superstitious constructs since antiquity. First off, since this isn’t a letter cipher, we’re utterly lacking the crucial data needed to uncover the secret ABC. But I’m no Rangei—a master in this field alongside Macbeth and Givilleuge—” “—who published *Cryptographie* in 1918,” he interjected wryly, “but I am not him. To ‘assume’—this idiom might as well be a golden rule for cryptographers. Because while there are codes specific to Zodiac Signs like (Virgo) or (Leo), I tried applying Jewish exegetical methods to them.” “After all,” he pressed on, “there’s historical precedent—during the 1881 Jewish massacres, Jews in Poland’s Grodzisk used light projected onto Zodiac Signs to warn neighboring villages of danger... And when examining Buxtorf—Johann or Johannes Buxtorf of Basel (1564–1629), that great Hebrew scholar—his *Abbreviations of Hebrew* records methods like Athbash (replacing Aleph with Tav), Albam (dividing the alphabet into halves), and Atbakh (numerical substitution). Ancient Hebrew astronomers assigned letters to shapes like Leo’s sickle or Virgo’s Y-form—some even became origins for our modern ABC.” “But with all twelve Zodiac Signs,” he concluded grimly, “four lack such physical symbols. There I hit an unexpected wall.”

However, when tracing Jewish cryptographic methods historically, it was discovered in the sixteenth century that Jewish labor unions and the Freemason Society—though widely known by name, this organization’s essence lay in secret conclaves, and its evident Jewish character was proven by the Shield of David designs painted over Masonic church floors, its foundational role in Masonic symbols like the compass and ruler, and the eight-pointed stars adorning obituary notices seen in Jewish synagogue stained-glass windows—filled those missing gaps within their cipher methods. “Hey, Inspector Kumajirō—the astonishing thing is that the entire history of Jewish cryptographic methods has been embedded within these Zodiac Signs.” “In that case, there can be no objection to considering that enigmatic figure Claude Digsby as a Jew born in Wales.” “In other words, this case involves two Jewish figures spanning both the hidden and visible realms,” Hōsui declared. Then, assigning Hebrew letters one by one to the shapes of the constellations, he began deciphering the Zodiac Signs.

Namely: to Sagittarius’s bow, Scorpio’s form, Virgo’s Y-shape, Leo’s great sickle shape, and Gemini’s twin-shouldered configuration were assigned their respective letters—while Taurus, following Aldebaran’s Hebrew designation as the “Eye of God,” naturally became Aleph (ℵ) in the first position. Next, Pisces has its etymological origin in the fish shape within Chaldean hieroglyphs. And with the water jug shape of the final Aquarius coming next, the entire physical deciphering was thus completed. Now then, after converting those eight Hebrew letters into their modern ABC counterparts based on their respective etymological origins (following the previously noted order), we ultimately arrive at (S. L. Aa. I. H. A. N. T.). However, four Zodiac Signs still remained unresolved: Capricorn, Libra, Cancer, and Aries. To these, Hōsui applied the Freemason ABC as per the diagram above.

According to this, Capricorn’s L-shape became B, Libra’s form became D, Cancer’s form became R, and Aries’ became E. Hōsui then applied another Freemason cipher method—the crisscross line method (zigzag notation)—. This method originated with Aeneas, the Athenian tactician, who had first recorded it in Chapter 31 of his work *Poliorcetes*. Using the crisscross line method (zigzag notation—where one arranges the ABCs arbitrarily on grid paper, shares this arrangement with the other party in advance, and communicates solely through zigzag lines connecting them), he traced the linear gaps starting from Capricorn’s B. And so, finally organizing the chaos, he was able to arrange the secret ABC. There, Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō suddenly recognized a single shaft of light piercing through the abyss of darkness from beyond the labyrinth. That divine light would undoubtedly overturn the overwhelming irrationality that had manifested in this case as criminal reality.

Through Hōsui Rintarō's astonishing analysis, had the Kuroshikan Murder Case at last entered its long-dreaded final act? For the answer lay in *Behind stairs*—that is to say, the rear of the grand staircase. When he completed the deciphering, Hōsui spoke quietly.

“So I’ve scrutinized the meaning of ‘behind the grand staircase’—but there’s scarcely room for doubt about it.” “Because only two spaces exist there—the room housing the Thérèse automaton and its adjoining chamber.” “And I daresay the solution itself will prove merely an antiquated stronghold tableau—hidden doors, mine shafts.” “Hah! Whatever motives drove Digsby to embed ciphers in the Zodiac Signs matter little now.” “Come—let us depart for Kuroshikan Mansion at once and put Krivov through her paces,” Hōsui declared, grinding his cigarette stub into the ashtray. At this, the prosecutor flushed girlishly and addressed him:

“Ah, today you are Lobachevsky—founder of non-Euclidean geometry! Indeed—the maximum parallax of Sirius has been calculated!” “No—if we’re talking about credit for that, let’s attribute it to Schnitzler.” Hōsui made an exceedingly theatrical gesture. “Alibis, evidence collection, detection—those things have no meaning in investigative methods since the Vienna Fourth School. Psychological analysis. To explore the criminal’s psychopathic nature and observe their world of deception as a psychic mirror—those two points are all that matter. Hey, Prosecutor Shikura—isn’t mental imagery a vast country? It is both chaos and mere fabrication.” After murmuring this improvised adaptation of Schnitzler’s ideas, he gave a great stretch and stood up.

“Now then, Inspector Kumajirō, please raise the final curtain. For this curtain will likely become my coronation.”

However, at that moment, applause erupted from an unexpected place. Suddenly, the telephone rang, and in that instant, the situation took a drastic turn. Even Hōsui’s superhuman analysis—which had been closing in on Mrs. Krivov—proved nothing more than a fleeting comic interlude within this abyssal horror-tragedy. Hōsui quietly placed the receiver back. Then, turning his bloodless face toward the two men, he spoke in tones of indescribable anguish.

"Ah, I may not be Schleiermacher..." "I poured my soul into pursuing anguish—only for it to become this blood-drenched pantomime." "And of all people—Krivov was sniped," Hōsui uttered hollowly, his gaze fixed upon the painting of the great conflagration now shadowed by dimming sunlight. It was as if he watched the colossal tower of knowledge he'd erected crumble into ruin before him. Hōsui's historic retreat—could this be called investigative history's most magnificent spectacle?

II. Floating in Mid-Air……Shall Be Killed

Around the time when Hōsui was attempting to carry out a Jewish massacre against Mrs. Krivov and was fervently deciphering the Zodiac's secret cipher method.

Meanwhile, at Kuroshikan Mansion—surrounded by plainclothes officers as a shield—an unparalleled phantasmagorical tragedy occurred, though how the perpetrator slipped through that gap remained unfathomable. This incident occurred at 2:40 PM. The victim, Mrs. Krivov, had been in the second-floor armory at the exact center of the main building facing the front garden—directly beneath the spire—basking in the afternoon sunlight streaming in at that very moment as she leaned against a stone table by the window, engrossed in her book. Then, suddenly from behind her, someone fired a Finnish-style fire crossbow—one of the decorative pieces—but fortunately, the arrow merely grazed her head and sewed through her hair. And that fierce direct force momentarily suspended her in mid-air before striking the armored door directly ahead; caught in that mechanism’s recoil, Mrs. Krivov was flung out the window like a ball. However, since the barbed arrowhead had lodged firmly between the bars and her hair remained tenaciously entangled in the arrow’s nock at the rear, Mrs. Krivov’s body hung suspended by that single shaft and began spinning violently like a top in midair. It was precisely a continuation of Mrs. Dannenberg and Ekisuke—a blood-soaked fairy-tale tableau. Utilizing that unfathomable sorcerous power, the culprit had once again manipulated Mrs. Krivov like a marionette on this day. And so they staged yet another mythological drama—resplendent with five colors, transcending reason and sensuality. The spectacle must have been utterly gruesome—Mrs. Krivov’s crimson hair whirling under sunlight into a flaming top would have evoked Medusa’s furious locks from Gorgon myth. And had Mrs. Krivov not thrown out a hand to grasp the window frame in unconscious desperation—perhaps as the arrow’s nock frayed or head loosened—she might ultimately have shattered on the ground thirty feet below. However, upon hearing her scream they pulled Mrs. Krivov back up immediately—though nearly all her hair had been torn out mercilessly—and with bleeding roots leaving her unconscious face streaked crimson like spilled ocher dye.

A mere thirty-five minutes after the tragedy had occurred, Hōsui and his group arrived at Kuroshikan Mansion. Upon entering the mansion, he immediately visited Mrs. Krivov’s sickbed. Fortunately, through the doctor’s care, her consciousness had been restored, and he managed to hear the aforementioned circumstances in fragmented detail. However, any deeper truth remained within the culprit’s grasp, beyond the realm of chaos. At that time, she had positioned her chair facing the window with its back to the door—naturally obscuring any view of the figure behind her—while plainclothes officers had been stationed at each corner of the corridors leading to that room on both sides, though none reported anyone entering or exiting. In other words, the chamber was nearly equivalent to a sealed vault; thus, it should have been utterly impossible for any physical entity to enter or exit unnoticed by the officers. After concluding his inquiry, Hōsui left Mrs. Krivov’s sickroom and promptly proceeded to inspect the problematic armory.

When viewed from the front, the room was positioned precisely at the exact center of the main building, sandwiched between two projecting wings. Its two glass windows alone differed from all others, adopting a late eighteenth-century two-tiered top-and-bottom style. Moreover, the interior too was constructed in Northern Gothic-style basalt masonry, with surrounding walls built from hewn stones requiring both arms to encircle—a structure that evoked the dark, crude barbarity and oppressive weight characteristic of Theodoric's reign. Within the room, aside from exhibits, there remained only a massive stone table and a single high-backed chair without a canopy. What rendered that gloomy atmosphere even more ominous were the ancient weapons from various eras adorning the surrounding walls. The collection contained nothing particularly archaic but ranged from smaller war engines like radial catapults of the Morganatic War period and military settlers' scaling ladders to larger combat devices resembling Yuan Dynasty fire projectors. It included twelve or thirteen shield types—such as saddle-shaped shields for hand cannons—alongside a Theodosian iron flail, an Aragon-era war hammer, Germanic flails, and over a dozen polearm varieties mixing long and short shafts with straight or forked blades, spanning from Norman-style great spears to sixteenth-century lances. Additionally, starting with infantry battle-axes, Western swords of various periods were present—the Burgundian sickle-swords and Zabern swords being particularly peculiar. Here and there were displayed medieval armors such as Neuchâtel armor, Maximilian-style suits, Farnese plate, and Bayard-type harnesses, while firearms were limited to a few early hand cannons. Yet as he inspected these exhibits, Hōsui Rintarō must surely have regretted not bringing his treasured copy of Gross's Ancient Military Weapons on this occasion. For indeed, he would occasionally sigh or narrow his eyes to examine fine carvings and crests—undoubtedly enraptured by this evolution of armaments so thoroughly that he forgot his duties.

However, after making a full circuit of the room and finally arriving before a Northern pirate-style helmet adorned with water buffalo horns and seals, he redirected his gaze to a disproportionately empty space on the adjacent wall surface, then immediately picked up a fire crossbow from the floor directly before it. It was a Finnish-style weapon (see diagram above) measuring three shaku in total length—approximately ninety centimeters—capable of launching demonic arrows coated with gunpowder to pierce enemy fortifications, simultaneously killing, wounding, and incinerating—a truly brutal armament. To outline its structure: the bow-shaped frame had twisted cord strings drawn to a central handle, with a mechanism that tilted this handle sideways to release the shot. Compared to early artillery's winding systems, it was unmistakably primitive—a thirteenth-century design. In other words, this single fire crossbow's demonic arrow had compelled Mrs. Krivov to perform her grand life-and-death spectacle. However, the position on the wall where it had been hung aligned precisely with Hōsui's chest level. Simultaneously, Inspector Kumajirō brought over the demonic arrow that had lain on the stone table. Its shaft measured over two centimeters thick, featuring a bronze four-pronged head and nock made of goose feathers—a design radiating such robust ferocity that one could readily infer the sheer force required to both suspend Mrs. Krivov mid-air and propel her forward. Not only were there no fingerprints on either crossbow or arrow—not even traces of contact—but when Kumajirō first voiced his doubts, the theory of accidental discharge proved baseless from inception. For just before the incident occurred, this fire crossbow had been displayed with its arrow nocked and pointed toward the window—an operation not entirely beyond a woman's capability. First, Inspector Kumajirō drew a straight line with his finger from the half-open right armored door to the wall surface.

“Hōsui, the height matches perfectly,” Kumajirō began, tracing an invisible line in the air. “But the angle to the armored door deviates by over twenty-five degrees. If this were an accidental discharge, the arrow should’ve struck the equestrian armor parallel to the wall.” His finger jabbed at the corner display. “The killer must’ve crouched to fire this crossbow.” Hōsui gnawed his thumbnail, eyes narrowing at the weapon. “Yet they missed their target. That’s what baffles me most.” He lifted the crossbow’s stock, revealing its iron sights. “The range was point-blank. Krivov had her back turned—only her head protruding from the chair.” His voice dropped as he mimed aiming. “Hitting her occipital bone should’ve been simpler than Teru spearing an apple with an insect pin.”

“Well then, Hōsui—what exactly are you thinking?” said Prosecutor Shikura, who until that moment had been inspecting the surrounding stonework while anticipating something, perhaps hoping to find a crack in the plaster. But when he returned empty-handed, he sharply questioned Hōsui. Then Hōsui suddenly walked over to the window and, pointing through it at the fountain ahead, said:

“By the way, the crux lies with that Horror Fountain.” “It’s a product of Baroque-era vulgarity—one that employs water pressure so when someone approaches within a set distance, mist suddenly erupts from the statues flanking it.” “Yet look at this windowpane—traces of spray still cling fresh.” “Which means someone must have triggered that fountain’s mist very recently.” “Of course, that alone wouldn’t merit suspicion.” “But today lacks even a whisper of wind.” “So why did droplets reach this far? That’s the question.” “Shikura—this makes for a fascinating case study.” As Hōsui began to continue, shadows rapidly pooled across his features, his eyes glinting with febrile intensity. “At any rate, the Leipzig school would declare today’s crime scene absurdly simple.” “Some specter slipped in unseen and took aim at that red-haired Jewish crone’s occiput.” “Then vanished when their shot went wide—or so they’d claim.” “Naturally, ‘Behind stairs’ offers slender hope regarding this inexplicable intrusion.” “But unless my instincts err—even were we to resolve it phenomenologically—” “I suspect today’s events will thicken the shroud over this case.” “That aqueous mist—to phrase it mystically—marks a water spirit replacing fire...and missing its mark.”

“More fairy mountain landscapes, eh?” “But really—are you saying such things in earnest?” Prosecutor Shikura clamped down hard on the end of his tobacco and launched an accusatory barb. Hōsui nervously moved his fingertips, tapping on the window frame as he— “Exactly. “That beloved Amanojaku has shown an increasing tendency to disregard the revelations of the apocalyptic diagram. “In other words, they’re toying with even the foundational textbook of the Kuroshikan Murder Case. “Galibarda should be killed upside down—a truth manifested in Nobuko’s unconscious form. “Then there’s Krivov—who was meant to be slain with covered eyes—nearly murdered while suspended mid-air. “At that moment, the Horror Fountain’s water mist—soaring high into the void—was guided by an invisible hand. “And then it came drifting abruptly toward this room’s window. “You see, Shikura—this constitutes the demonology of our case. “Could such pathological signs—moreover arranged with such formulaic precision—possibly align through mere coincidence?”

That single matter had been akin to an elusive mist separating grandeur from substance—so much so that Prosecutor Shikura had once included it in his catalog of unanswered questions. Yet when Hōsui laid it bare so explicitly, what struck him as even more chilling than the criminal phenomena of this case was that miasma-like presence drifting in shadowy form within it.

But at that moment, the door opened, and Mrs. Serena and Mr. Levez entered, escorted by plainclothes officers. However, upon entering and seemingly catching a glimpse of the three men’s gloomy demeanor, Mrs. Serena—who appeared gentle at first glance—did not even properly return their greetings before slamming her hand roughly on the stone table and said:

“Ah, what an ever-so-refined gathering we have here! Mr. Hōsui—have you investigated that vile puppeteer—Mrs. Tsutako Oshikane?” “What? Tsutako Oshikane?!” Even Hōsui seemed genuinely taken aback by this.

“So—are you suggesting that we are to be killed?” "No—in truth, there exists an utterly insurmountable barrier surrounding that person."

Then, Mr. Levez interjected. And, while continuing to rub his hands together as before, he spoke in a dull, soft tone tinged with fawning.

“But Mr. Hōsui, you see, that barrier you speak of has been constructed psychologically within us.” “You may have heard, but that person has been staying at this mansion for about a month now, despite having both a husband and her own residence.” “Generally speaking, to leave her own residence without any reason—for what purpose… No, it’s just a childlike imagination of mine.” Hōsui interjected as if cutting him off, “No, it’s that child.” “After all, in life, nothing is more cruelly inventive than a child,” Hōsui shot a piercing sarcasm at Mr. Levez before continuing, “By the way, Mr. Levez—didn’t I once ask you about Lenau’s *Autumn Heart*? The line goes, ‘There lies a rose, and near it no bird’s song echoes.’” “Ha ha ha ha, do you remember?” “However, let me give you one warning—next time, it will be *your* turn to be killed,” Hōsui uttered words that somehow carried a prophetic air, tinged with his signature ironic paradox and an unnervingly eerie quality. At that moment, a look of impulsive anguish flashed across Mr. Levez’s face, but he gulped audibly, regained his composure, and retorted.

“Truly, it is exactly the same. The approach of something unidentifiable in nature proves far more terrifying than overt threats, you see. However, the reason we came to bar our bedroom doors and fortify them like a fortress stems from no recent occurrence.” “In fact,” Mr. Levez began, his face tautening as if he had already forgotten the silent interplay with Hōsui from mere moments prior, “an incident identical to that night’s Divine Judgment Council had transpired once before.”

“It was shortly after the previous lord’s passing, in early May of last year. That night, we were scheduled to practice Haydn’s G Minor String Quartet in the chapel.” “However, as the piece progressed, Ms. Gretchen suddenly let out a small cry. Her right-hand bow fell to the floor, her left hand gradually went limp and drooped, and she began staring fixedly at the open doorway.” “Of course, we three stopped our performance upon noticing this.” “Then Ms. Gretchen thrust the violin she held in her left hand—inverted—toward the door and cried out, ‘Mrs. Tsutako! Who was there?’” “Sure enough, Mrs. Tsutako appeared from beyond the doorway, but she wore a thoroughly perplexed expression and said, ‘No one is here.’” “Yet when she heard that—what do you suppose Ms. Gretchen did?” “Raising her voice to a roar, she screamed words that froze our blood in an instant.” When she uttered, “But surely Dr. Sanzō was there—”, Mrs. Serena stiffened her entire body in terror and seized Levez’s forearm in a vice-like grip. Levez cradled her shoulder as if comforting her while directing a gaze at Hōsui—one that seemed to mock those ignorant of the secret’s profundity.

“Of course, I believe that the answer to that enigma has manifested itself in that incident of the Divine Judgment Council.” “No, I must say I am someone who has always been far removed from spiritualism.” “In such mysterious and occult coincidences as these, there must surely exist a textbook formula—so I say.” “Now then, Mr. Hōsui—the Rose Knight you have been seeking uncannily aligns with those two instances of mystery.” “That goes without saying—it is none other than Mrs. Tsutako.”

During this time, Hōsui remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor, then let out a faint sigh—as if anticipating the possibility of some event. “In any case, we will assign particularly strict guards around you from now on.” “And let me once again apologize for having asked you about *Autumn Heart*,” he uttered another cryptic remark that defied comprehension elsewhere, then shifted the matter to administrative grounds.

“By the way, where were you at the time of today’s incident?” “Yes, I was cleaning Joconda—the Saint Bernard dog—in my room,” Mrs. Serena answered without hesitation, then turned toward Levez and added, “And I believe you were near the Horror Fountain at the time, Mr. Ottokar.” At that moment, an extraordinary look of panic flashed across Mr. Levez’s face, but he concealed it with an unnaturally high-pitched, forced laugh as he said, “Now Mrs. Galibarda, if we were to reverse the arrowhead and nock, the crossbow’s string would likely snap.” And so, after continuing to persistently and harshly criticize Tsutako’s actions, the two left the room. As the two figures disappeared beyond the door, simultaneously, the alibis for Hatatarō and the other three were brought by plainclothes officers. According to the report, Hatatarō and Kuga Chinako were in the library, while Oshikane Tsutako—who had already recovered—was proven to have been in the downstairs hall at the time. Yet strangely, once again, Nobuko’s whereabouts remained unknown, with not a single person having witnessed her presence. After hearing the full report from the plainclothes officers, Hōsui wore an intensely complex expression and proceeded to voice his third bizarre assertion of the day.

“Now Prosecutor Shikura, Levez’s intense figure keeps persistently clinging to me. “That man’s psyche has become exceedingly convoluted. “It might be a knightly spirit trying to shield someone, or perhaps such severe mental turmoil has already pushed him over the edge into madness. “But what feels most visceral is envisioning that man riding a corpse cart,” Hōsui declared, imposing this aberrant interpretation onto Levez’s mundane behavior. As his eyes shifted toward the fountain statues, he hastily withdrew the cigarette he’d started to retrieve. “Let us now inspect the Horror Fountain. “Not as the perpetrator per se—but today’s incident undeniably revolves around Levez.”

The Horror Fountain’s summit featured a brass Parnassus group statue, with stepping stones positioned around the basin on all four sides. When stepped on, a mechanism caused four streams of water to shoot high from above the statues’ heads, each directed to a respective side. It was discovered that the water discharge continued for approximately ten seconds. However, clear shoe prints remained in the melted frost mud on those stepping stones, revealing through their pattern that Mr. Levez had traversed each stone along a complex path, stepping on them only once each. Specifically, he had first approached from the main building’s direction and stepped on the foremost stone; next on the opposite side; third on the right; and finally concluded by stepping on the left one. Yet as for what meaning lay behind these exceedingly intricate actions—even Hōsui himself could not begin to discern it at that moment.

Then, upon returning to the main building, they decided to summon Nobuko as the first person to be questioned in that usual locked room—the one that had been used as the interrogation room two days prior and where Mrs. Dannenberg’s corpse had been found. And during the interval before her arrival, what brushed against Hōsui's nerves—an eerie premonition that would later make him nod in recognition—was being drawn toward that bed which had reigned over this room for decades: locked and opened multiple times, having witnessed numerous bloody tragedies. He had merely inserted his face through the drapery when he involuntarily gasped and froze in place. It was because he had been struck by a strange impulse—something he had not felt in the slightest during the previous visit. Just because one corpse had vanished, an eerie vitality had been activated in the area partitioned by drapery. Perhaps it was a psychological effect arising from observing the pure intersections of angles and lines—a change brought about by the corpse’s absence altering the composition.

Yet it felt somehow different—even sharing that same coldness, it resembled touching the skin of a living fish. From this partitioned space’s air came what seemed like faint palpitations, and one might say he profoundly sensed an uncanny force manipulating living tissue. However, when Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō entered, Hōsui’s fantasy shattered without a trace. And he wondered if it was indeed due to the composition after all. Hōsui had never examined the bed so closely as he did at this moment.

The four pillars supporting the canopy bore crown carvings of pinecone-shaped finials at their tops, while from there down to the base stretched a relief carving of a fifteenth-century Venetian thirty-oared galley displaying sword marks of fearsome precision. And at the center of its prow, a headless "Brandenburg's Wild Eagle" spread its wings against the polar wind. Such was the composition adorning this peach blossom wood bed—a strange amalgamation that at first glance resembled patterns from historical texts. It was when Hōsui finally drew his face back from the relief carving of the decapitated eagle.

With a quiet sound of the handle turning, the summoned Kamiya Nobuko entered.

Part Six: The Night of Sanzō's Burial

I. That Migratory Bird... A Rainbow Split in Two

Nobuko Kamiya’s entrance—that marked the supreme climax of this case. Simultaneously, it constituted the final boundary separating the realm of baleful miasma from the limits of human comprehension. For every person entangled in these events had been winnowed away one by one, culminating with Mrs. Krivov, until Nobuko alone remained as the last surviving seed of hope. Furthermore, what she had once enacted in the bell chamber transcended any ambiguous human countenance. Neither distortion nor anomaly could constrain it... To rephrase, it indubitably manifested as a theatrical mask most violently embodying the congenital expression of a murderer. Thus, should Hōsui fail to exploit this opportunity to reverse fortunes by appraising Nobuko’s worth, that pitch-black malignant curtain would assuredly descend by the criminal’s hand to conclude this drama. To deny this outcome would be tantamount to affirming the supernatural power of that coiling monstrosity permeating these crimes—for even as events converged inexorably toward this nexus, not even Hōsui could forestall the great demonic spirit’s workings. Therefore, when Nobuko’s pallid face emerged from behind the door, the chamber’s atmosphere grew unnaturally taut. Even Hōsui found himself assailed by an irrepressible nervous impulse rising within. And in that moment, he stood utterly defenseless against the clawing anxiety that raked icy talons across his entire being.

Nobuko appeared to be twenty-three or twenty-four years old, with an elastic plumpness to her figure whose contours—both facial and bodily—evoked women of the Flemish school. Yet her face bore delicately carved shadows unusually deep for a Japanese woman, seeming to vividly articulate her inner depth. Most striking were her round, grape-like eyes from which intellectual fervor burst forth with antelope-like alertness—yet they also held a strangely morbid light crouching within her psyche’s depths. Overall, she lacked the peculiarly viscous darkness characteristic of Kuroshikan’s residents. However, after three days battling despair through grueling anguish, Nobuko stood emaciated beyond recognition. She seemed to have exhausted even the strength to walk; her gasping breaths—the frantic heaving of collarbones and throat cartilage—remained clearly visible from where the three sat. Staggering over to her seat, she closed both eyes as if quelling agitation, locked both arms tightly across her chest, and stayed utterly still. The sharply pointed susuki grass patterns jutting starkly against black fabric encircled her neck like crucifixion lances. This chance-born grotesquerie exuded an oddly medieval inquisitional air that then swirled outward like a vortex through the death chamber’s gloom—walled in oak and cornerstone—until Hōsui’s lips twitched to break silence. Perhaps preempting him, Nobuko’s eyes suddenly snapped wide open—and from her mouth erupted—

“I will confess. “When I lost consciousness in the bell chamber, I was indeed gripping the armor-piercing dagger. “Furthermore, even around the time Mr. Ekisuke was killed—and indeed during today’s incident involving Mrs. Krivov—strangely enough, I alone was not blessed with an alibi. “No, I have been placed at the endpoint of this case from the very beginning. “So no matter how much we continue this foolish Q&A here, ultimately there will be no room for criticism in this situation,” Nobuko pressed repeatedly, taking a deep breath before adding, “Moreover, I have a unique mental disorder and occasionally suffer from hysterical episodes. “Well, isn’t that right? “This is something I heard from Kuga Chinako, but the criminal psychopathologist Krafft-Ebing, quoting Nietzsche, emphasizes the genius’s immoral predatory nature. “Throughout the entire Middle Ages, what was considered the highest characteristic of humanity was the ability to induce hallucinations—or in other words, to possess the capacity for profound mental disturbance—so they say. “Hohohoho, this is how it is, you see. “Everything lines up perfectly—so perfectly that it’s all too clear. At this point, I’ve grown weary of insisting that I’m not the culprit.”

It was a voice that somehow did not seem to belong to her—an attitude verging on reckless despair. Yet within it lay an oddly childish defiance, through which one could glimpse the desperate struggle to writhe free from hopelessness. When she finished speaking, the ligaments that had stiffened Nobuko’s body abruptly slackened, and utter exhaustion washed over her face. At this, Hōsui inquired in a gentle tone.

“No, if it’s that mourning dress, it will surely soon become unnecessary. If you can state the name of the person you saw in the bell chamber...” “Then… who could that be referring to?” Nobuko parroted back with an innocent look. However, her subsequent demeanor suggested not suspicion or bewilderment, but something latent—as if being incited by a fear-like consciousness. Yet the impatient Kumajirō, apparently no longer able to remain composed, promptly produced the matter of her autograph—signed while in a dazed state (a subconscious signature with precedent in the Gutenberg Case). After briefly explaining this, he switched tactics and sternly pressed Nobuko to speak.

“Alright then.” “What we want to ask amounts to just this.” “However reluctant we may be to label you as the culprit, we’ll have no choice unless this conclusion gets overturned.” “Meaning there are only two essential points—we needn’t inquire about anything beyond them.” “For you, this moment marks the critical juncture determining your life’s trajectory.” “Do not disregard the gravity of this warning...” Inspector Kumajirō pressed with a grimace, his tone urgent. Then Prosecutor Shikura took over, adopting an admonitory voice.

“Of course, in such cases, we cannot exclude even the most congenital delusionist.” “Even so, the very moment when one attains complete mental health lies precisely there, you see.” “Now, please state the actual number for X.” “Furuyatsuki Hatatarō... Indeed.” “No—exactly who are you referring to?”

“Furuyatsuki… Well,” she whispered faintly, and Nobuko’s face rapidly turned pale. It was a ghastly struggle, as though something within the depths of her soul were locked in mutual combat. However, after swallowing hard several times—just as a flash of insight seemed to strike—Nobuko spoke in a high-pitched, trembling voice. “Ah, do you have business with that person?” “If that’s the case, then in the recessed ceiling with the keyboard, there were bats hanging in hibernation.” “Also, I know there were still one or two large white moths that had survived.” “Therefore, if you are aware of how hibernating creatures react to light…” “Then if you simply shine a light toward them, those animals will turn their faces toward it and tell you everything.” “Or perhaps, following this case’s official narrative, should I declare it was Dr. Sanzō-sama after all?”

Nobuko made her resolute determination clear. She seemed determined to maintain silence on a certain matter, even at the cost of her own fate.

However, when she finished speaking—for some reason—she stiffened as if awaiting terrifying words. Perhaps even she herself had been seized by an impulse to instinctively cover her ears at her own words, which dripped with nothing but mockery. Inspector Kumajirō bit down hard on his lip and glared at her with visceral loathing, but at that moment, a sinister gleam surfaced in Hōsui’s eyes as he thudded his folded arms onto the table. Then he unleashed one of his signature bizarre questions.

“Ah, Sanzō…” “That ominous plow—the King of Spades?”

"No, if it's Dr. Sanzō-sama, he would be the King of Hearts," Nobuko reflexively replied before letting out a deep sigh. "I see—if it's Hearts, that would signify affection and trust," Hōsui's eyes flickered with a hypersensitive gleam. "But regarding this tattletale bat—exactly which end was it positioned at?" "When viewed from the keyboard's center, it was directly above," Nobuko answered without hesitation, her tone controlled.

“However, beside it was its favorite moth.” “But as long as that moth kept silent, even a cruel bat wouldn’t harm it needlessly, I should think.” “Yet that allegory proved contrary to reality.” “No—if it’s such a fairy-tale dream, we’ll let you revisit it at leisure,” Inspector Kumajirō sneered venomously, “in a cell this time.” Hōsui gave him a reproving glance before addressing Nobuko.

“Please don’t mind me and continue.” “Originally, I absolutely detest works like those of Shelley’s wife—Mary Godwin, the author of Frankenstein and second wife of the poet Shelley.” “I’ve grown utterly weary of such gut-churning sensations.” “By the way, when did that white boa start swaying?” “During which scene in the bell chamber did it send a breeze your way?” “To tell the truth, that moth eventually ended up as the bat’s prey.” “Because it was Mrs. Krivov who ordered me to undertake that ordeal—and to ‘row a thirty-oared warship alone,’ no less.” For an instant, a cold fury grazed Nobuko’s face, but it vanished without a trace. And she continued.

“Because Mrs. Krivov ordered me—a woman—to play that heavy bell instrument three times consecutively, which Mr. Levez usually handles.” “So by the midpoint of the first sutra hymn I played, my hands and legs had gone utterly limp, my vision gradually clouding over.” “Ms. Kuga calls that symptom a faint delirium—” “She describes it as a shipwrecked state of pathological passion.” “At such moments, she says something intensely ethical inevitably rises like a warhorse with ears pricked—” “Moreover, she stated that while it may be an instant of supreme purity—ethical yet decidedly not moral—one cannot suppress the murderous impulse there.” “Ah—does even this qualify as the poetic confession you envision?” After casting an icy look of contempt at Kumajirō, she summoned memories of that time.

“And perhaps this corresponds to part of that phenomenon—though I myself was in a trance-like state, unaware of what I was playing, I could perceive with strange clarity how the cold wind swept unevenly across my face.” “It was—so to speak—a sensation akin to a cold pain.” “However, as it continued flickering incessantly without respite, I finally managed to complete the third repetition of the sutra hymn.” “Then, even during the intervals when I rested my hands, it remained the same.” “The sound of requiem music welling up from the chapel below began fading first from the cello and viola’s lower strings, gradually receding from my ears—but just as I thought it had gone, it came surging back, this time swelled thunderously to fill the entire room.” “However, that rhythmic repetition—as precise as a metronome—gradually alleviated my fatigue’s torment.” “And though it happened with excruciating slowness, it gradually began sinking me into a pleasant drowsiness.” “Thus even after finishing the piece and regaining movement in my limbs, my ears heard no bell tones—only that soundless, pleasant rhythm continued resonating incessantly.” “However, it was at that moment.” “Suddenly something struck the right side of my face.” “Then inflammation erupted there, burning hot as if ignited.” “But in that instant, my body twisted rightward—and with that movement, everything went dark.” “That was the moment—when I saw the moth in the recessed ceiling.” “Yet when I went to look this morning, the moth had vanished without trace—in its exact spot hung only a bat wearing an air of feigned innocence.”

The moment Nobuko’s testimony concluded, the gazes of the three struck simultaneously. Moreover, in them appeared an indescribable look of confusion. This was because the person who had ordered the bell instrument performance—deemed responsible for inducing Nobuko’s seizure—was none other than Mrs. Krivov, who had recently performed an ironic reversal of roles. Moreover, if Nobuko had indeed fallen to the right as she claimed, it must be said that the mystery surrounding the swivel chair would only deepen further. Kumajirō asked slyly, narrowing his eyes.

“If we accept that something attacked you from your right side, then there was a door at the top of those stairs, wasn’t there? Anyway, you ought to quit this ridiculous self-sacrifice...”

"No, I myself absolutely refuse to indulge in such dangerous games," Nobuko declared with unwavering resolve.

“Absolutely not—approaching such a terrifying transformed dragon.” “Just think about it.” “Suppose I were to name that person.” “However, with such a shallow premise alone, how were you able to construct a hypothesis about that mystical force?” “On the contrary, I wish to demand your legal interrogation regarding the armor-piercing dagger—that critical point.” “No, even I myself believe that I am, in a way, the culprit.” “And today’s incident is the same.” “Even in the hunting scene where that red-haired ape-lord was shot, I alone have no alibi, you see.”

“What do you mean by that?” “You just referred to her as the ‘red-haired ape-lord,’ did you not?” the prosecutor questioned with a scrutinizing gaze, though privately he thought, *Surprisingly, this girl is tougher than her age would suggest.* “That is also a solemn issue.” Nobuko twisted her lips in an oddly suggestive gesture, but her forehead glistened with clammy sweat, through which her inner turmoil seemed to show. How desperately she writhed to break free from despair—Nobuko had already expended every ounce of her strength, and the signs of her exhaustion could be seen in the heavy movement of her eyelids. However, she declared bluntly. “Generally speaking, even if Mrs. Krivov were to be killed, there likely wouldn’t be a single person who would mourn her.” “Truly, it would be better if she were killed than allowed to live on…” “I believe there are plenty of people who think that would be so much better.”

“Then, tell me who that person is.”

Kumajirō, while feeling fully wary of this girl’s provocative attitude, found himself unwittingly drawn to this line of questioning. “If there exists someone who particularly desires Mrs. Krivov’s death...” “For example, I am one such person.” Nobuko answered without a trace of hesitation. “Because I inadvertently created the reason for it. Although it was previously only within an inner circle, there was an occasion where I, as his secretary, published Dr. Sanzō’s posthumous manuscripts. However, within them were detailed records concerning the Khmelnytsky Uprising.” “That...” she began, but with a sudden look of impulse, Nobuko sharply clamped her mouth shut. And for a short while, she seemed to wrestle intensely with the anguish of whether to speak or remain silent, but finally declared, “That content—no matter what—I cannot speak of it myself. However, from that moment onward, how utterly wretched I became. Of course, Mrs. Krivov tore up those records on the spot, but ever since then, I have been subjected to her arbitrary hostility. It’s the same today. She summoned me merely to open a window—but how many times did she make me raise and lower it to get it to that position?”

The Khmelnytsky Uprising—the Great Persecution— Of its details, only Hōsui among the three possessed full knowledge. This marked the most severe of the Jewish persecutions in the Caucasus region—reported to have occurred repeatedly throughout the seventeenth century—and became the catalyst for intermarriage between Cossacks and Jews to emerge thereafter. Though Hōsui had already deduced Mrs. Krivov’s Jewish heritage, he found himself undeniably drawn to the contents of those obliterated records—a fascination that felt almost predestined. At that precise moment, a plainclothes officer entered to announce the arrival of Tsutako’s husband—Dr. Oshikane—at the estate. The investigators had issued such an abrupt summons to Fukuoka—where Dr. Oshikane had been traveling—for the will’s unsealing that they now had no choice but to halt Nobuko’s interrogation mid-process. Hōsui accordingly shelved the Dannenberg affair and turned his focus toward unraveling that day’s developments.

“Now then, as for the previous matter—I will inquire again later…” “At the time of today’s incident, why were you unable to establish an alibi?”

“Why, it’s simply two consecutive strokes of bad luck,” Nobuko said with a touch of bitterness, her voice tinged with sorrow. “Because at that time I was inside Juhikitei—located near the left end of the main building. That place was surrounded by Bidan-katsura sleeve fences and couldn’t be seen from anywhere. Moreover, even the window of the armory where Mrs. Krivov was hanged—precisely that area—is obstructed by the Bidan-katsura fence. Therefore, I had no knowledge at all that such animal acrobatics had occurred.”

"But surely you at least heard Mrs. Krivov’s scream, didn’t you?" “Of course I heard it.” It seemed almost reflexive—Nobuko answered immediately. Yet from around her mouth, an uncanny turmoil began to surface in her expression, and her voice suddenly trembled.

“But no matter what, I couldn’t leave that Juhikitei.”

“And why is that?” “Generally speaking, that sort of thing is what deepens baseless suspicions, you know.” Kumajirō pressed harshly, seizing the moment, but Nobuko’s lips twitched spasmodically as she clutched her chest with both hands, barely suppressing her turbulent emotions. However, ice-cold words were uttered from that mouth. “I cannot tell you—no matter how many times I repeat this, it remains the same.” “But more than that—just a moment before Mrs. Krivov let out her scream—I saw something strange by that window.” “It was like a colorless, transparent entity glowing faintly, yet its form lacked distinctness, as if it were some sort of gaseous substance.” “However, that bizarre entity appeared from the air above the window and, floating lightly, drifted diagonally into that window.” “An instant later, Mrs. Krivov let out a tearing scream,” said Nobuko, her features awash with vivid terror as she stared at Hōsui’s face as if probing his reaction. “At first, I thought it might have been spray from the Fountain of Astonishment, since Mr. Levez was present there at the time.” “But when I consider it, there’s no reason to worry about spray flowing when there isn’t even a slight breeze, is there?”

“Hmph—another ghost story,” Prosecutor Shikura muttered with a grimace, though beneath his breath he added—or perhaps it’s Nobuko’s lie—as was only natural. However, Kumajirō stood up with extraordinary determination. And he solemnly declared to Nobuko.

“In any case, I can well imagine the sleepless anguish you’ve endured these past few days. However, starting tonight, I will arrange for you to sleep soundly.” “After all, this is what passes for heaven for criminal defendants.” “By tightening the arrest rope firmly around your wrist.” “Then, a pleasant lightheadedness will spread through your entire body, and you’ll gradually grow drowsy.”

At that moment, Nobuko’s gaze dropped sharply. She covered her face with both hands and collapsed forward onto the table.

However, just as he was about to call for a police car and Inspector Kumajirō picked up the receiver— Hōsui, for whatever reason he had in mind, pulled out the wall plug connected to the cord with a pop and placed it on Nobuko’s palm. Having done so, he cast a sidelong glance at the dumbfounded three and rapturously expounded his idea. Ah, the situation had reversed once more. "In truth, that—that unfortunate apparition for you—has provided me with poetic inspiration." "If this were spring, that area would be a sea of pollen and scent." “However, even in the bleak midwinter, that natural stage of the fountain and Juhikitei—it compelled me to recognize your alibi.” "You and Mrs. Krivov were both saved by that migratory bird—the rainbow."

“Ah, the rainbow…” “What on earth do you mean?” Nobuko jolted upright as if propelled by springs, turning tear-drenched beautiful eyes toward Hōsui. Yet that very rainbow had cast Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō into despair’s abyss. For them both, that instant must have been when they grasped the utter futility of all human strength. Yet there lingered an irresistibly fascinating quality about the richly hued, sonorously vibrant painting Hōsui had produced. Hōsui spoke quietly.

“The rainbow... It was indeed a rainbow like a leather whip.” “However, as long as I was posturing as the culprit or donning Kuga Chinako’s pedantic mask, those very acts blocked my view, preventing me from seeing that rainbow.” “I sincerely sympathize with your position, pushed to the limits of hardship.”

“Then, to borrow Ms. Kuga’s words—a shift in motive.” “That’s correct, isn’t it?” “But I’ve already washed off such kabuki makeup.” “‘Hypocrisy, pedantry… Such vices were indeed robes too heavy for me.’ All that had festered since the first day now burst forth uncontrollably.” Nobuko’s body sprang forward like a fawn—elbows raised level, fists pressed to her temples, swaying side to side—her eyes drunk with rapture as she traced invisible characters in the air. This wholly unforeseen deliverance into joy had transformed her into pure madness incarnate.

“How dazzling…” “I… I firmly believed that this light would surely come someday… But that darkness—” she began, then closed her eyes as if refusing to see and shook her head violently. “Yes, I’ll do anything you wish to see—whether dancing or standing on my hands—” She sprang up, stamping in three-quarter time like a Polish round dance, spinning like a spinning top—but then suddenly slammed both hands onto the edge of the table, tossing her cascading hair back like a lotus leaf as she said: “But please—don’t ask about the truth of the Bell Chamber or why I couldn’t leave Juhikitei. Because these mansion walls have strange ears. The day that secret is broken, who knows how long your sympathy will last?” “Well then, let’s begin the next interrogation.”

"No, you may take your leave now." "There are still a few matters regarding the Dannenberg case I’d like to ask you about for reference," Hōsui said, finally having Nobuko—still unable to extricate herself from her ecstatic frenzy—escorted out. A prolonged silence and jagged black shadows—the room after her departure resembled the calm following a typhoon, yet seethed with an ineffably anguished atmosphere. For they, taking Nobuko’s release as a turning point, had now been severed from all hope in the human world. Was not the course of events being inexorably funneled into that tremendous occult force—the undercurrent of the dreadful Kuroshikan—which cast its shadow over even the most trivial criminal phenomena? Kumajirō’s face contorted with rage as he ground his teeth furiously, but suddenly Hōsui slammed the disconnected plug onto the floor. Kumajirō had risen and was storming about the room when Hōsui calmly addressed him.

“Well now, Inspector Kumajirō—with this, the second act has truly reached its conclusion.” “A literal labyrinth of chaos and entanglement, of course.” “But mark this—when the curtain rises on the next act, Levez will take the stage, and from that moment, this case shall plunge headlong into catastrophic ruin.”

“A solution—? Don’t spout such idiocy!” “I don’t even have the vigor left to tender my resignation.” “It was probably scripted in the stage directions from the very start.” “The second act remained earthly, but from the third onward we enter the realm of divination and spirit conjuring—or so it goes,” Inspector Kumajirō muttered despondently. “At any rate, our remaining task is to comb through those pre-sixteenth-century codices you hoard.” “Then we’ll be composing our own epitaphs.” “Hmm, about those pre-sixteenth-century texts...” “In truth, there exists an equally baseless conjecture,” Prosecutor Shikura maintained his funereal bearing, skewering Hōsui with prosecutorial sharpness. “Now then—a wagon heaped with dried grass passed beneath a rainbow.” “—Then a clogs-clad maiden danced—and behold, not a single human soul remains in this case.” “I cannot for the life of me grasp the significance of this bucolic tableau.” “First principles—what phenomenon does this ‘rainbow’ forcibly metaphorize?”

“Don’t be absurd. “It is certainly not a grammar book—nor is it a poem. “Of course，it’s neither analogy nor correspondence. “But in reality，a genuine rainbow appeared between the culprit and Mrs．Krivov，you see，” said Hōsui，turning feverish eyes still clouded by lingering visions—just as the door quietly opened．

And then, without any warning, Kuga Chinako’s gaunt, thorn-like face suddenly appeared. In that instant, a suffocating pressure surged forth. Undoubtedly, this erudite mystic theorist—with her androgynously intense personality—would plunge the already bizarre case, now devoid of any human culprit to pursue, into even deeper gloom. After briefly acknowledging them with her eyes, Chinako said in her usual cold tone. But what followed was exceedingly vehement.

“Mr. Hōsui, I can scarcely credit it.” “Yet surely you don’t accept those migratory birds’ claims at face value?” “Migratory birds⁉” Hōsui’s eyes widened in astonishment as he instantly countered. The words he had just uttered as a metaphor for the rainbow—whether by chance or design—now echoed from Chinako’s lips. “Precisely—the three surviving ‘migratory birds.’” Chinako spat these words while fixing Hōsui with an unblinking stare. “No matter what defensive stratagems those wretches employ, Lady Tsutako cannot possibly be the culprit—this I maintain absolutely.” “Though Her Ladyship has managed to sit upright since dawn, she remains unfit to withstand interrogation.” “You of all people must know—what symptoms manifest from a chloral hydrate overdose?” “Recovery from such anemia and optic nerve exhaustion within a single day proves utterly implausible.” “Rather, I perceive her fate mirroring Mary Stuart’s—that sixteenth-century Scottish queen-saint—” “—beheaded by Elizabeth on February eighth, 1587.” “In essence, it is your prejudice I find most perilous.”

“Mary Stuart⁉” Hōsui suddenly leaned forward with interest, half his body over the table. “So are you likening them to that overly virtuous saint—or to Queen Elizabeth’s political machinations... against those three?” “In both senses,” Chinako answered coldly. “As you know, Lady Tsutako’s husband Dr. Oshikane has nearly depleted his personal fortune for the charity hospital he runs.” “Thus she must reclaim the spotlight at all costs—even through her monocular impairment—to secure its future.” “The acclaim she receives will surely succor tens of thousands despairing of medical hope.” “Truly, the gentle-eyed may be blessed, yet gatekeepers obstruct—so says Solomon.” “Mr. Hōsui, you grasp this wisdom.” “That gate—the one with the keyhole casting this case’s lurid glow.” “Therein lies Kuroshikan’s Secret Key to Eternal Life.”

“Could you please explain that in more concrete terms?” “In that case, Schultz (Fritz Schultz—a German psychologist from the previous century) and his Theory of Psychic Germination (this theory, particular to fanatical psychic scientists, is a form of reincarnation doctrine. That is to say, after death, the spirit separates from the body and persists eternally in an unconscious state. It is of such a low level that manifesting consciousness is impossible, but it is said to possess the power to generate a kind of impulsive action. And though it is said to drift between the realms of life and death, occasionally emerging even within the subconscious, it remains one of the most rational theories of its kind—are you familiar with this?) I myself would not make such claims without solid evidence,” Chinako declared with a tempestuous smile, once again summoning a ghastly wind into this case.

“Wh-what?! The Theory of Psychic Germination⁉” Hōsui suddenly contorted his face into a ferocious expression, stammering as he shouted. “Then where is your evidence…? Why would you insist on introducing immortality theories into this case? Are you suggesting Dr. Sanzō maintains some inexplicable form of survival? Or perhaps Claude Digsby…”

Psychic Germination—that eerie phrase was first spoken by Chinako, then annotated by Hōsui with theories of immortality. Undoubtedly, what connected these two points had grown silently in the darkness at this case's core—spreading without sound and gradually expanding its boundaries. Yet given the circumstances, Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō now felt their terror and fantasies materializing before their eyes—an involuntary sensation as if their hearts had been violently gripped. However, when Hōsui uttered Digsby's name, a skeptical expression welled up on Chinako's face as though riddles had been hurled at her, appearing to seize her heart with certainty. Generally, highly suggestible people fall into near-unconscious trance states when gripped by doubt, during which bizarre involuntary movements manifest. As if exemplifying this, Chinako began removing the ring from her left middle finger—twirling it around her finger, pulling it off and pushing it back on in ceaseless nervous repetition. Then a sinister light flashed in Hōsui's eyes as he stood during the momentary lull in voices. With hands clasped behind his back, he began pacing the room with clicking steps until reaching Chinako's rear—where he suddenly burst into loud laughter.

“Ha ha ha ha! This is beyond absurd.” Hōsui’s laughter crackled through the room as he leaned forward. “That the King of Spades is still alive?” “No—if we speak of Dr. Sanzō-sama,” Chinako corrected with reflexive sharpness, her fingers suddenly fumbling at the ring on her left hand, “he would be the King of Hearts.” A tremor passed through her as she forced the band onto her pinkie finger. Drawing a shuddering breath, she continued: “When I mentioned Psychic Germination, it was purely metaphorical.” She raised a cautioning palm. “I implore you—do not interpret this through literal imagery.” “Rather,” she pressed on, “consider Eckhart’s concept of spirituality—Johann Eckhart, that is.” Her voice took on a lecturing tone. “The Dominican mystic from Erfurt, renowned as the Middle Ages’ greatest theologian of pantheism.” Her fingers traced invisible patterns in the air. “From father to child—that liminal space where humanity’s seed must cross between life and death.” Her eyes grew distant. “A wilderness battered by storms in eternal darkness.” “Shall I make this tangible?” She leaned forward urgently. “We cannot perceive the devil because his essence lies beyond our self-portraits.” Her ring clinked against the table with each emphatic word. “The case’s deepest mystery dwells along that hyper-essential path—indescribable in form and substance.” Her final words fell like a guillotine blade: “Mr. Hōsui—this punishment could make hell’s very pillars tremble.”

“I’ve grasped it thoroughly.” Hōsui retorted with defiant clarity, eyebrows arched sharply upward. “Because waiting at the terminus of that philosophical path lies a question I’ve already discerned.” “Now Ms. Kuga—even the Treaty of Saint Stephen merely loosened fringe provisions regarding Jewish treatment.” “Then why in the Caucasus, that crucible of persecution, was landholding exceeding half-village districts permitted?” “The crux resides in that inexplicable negative value.” “Yet this case’s Jewish subject—purported daughter of a district landowner—ultimately proved innocent.”

At that moment, Chinako’s entire body began trembling as though starting to crumble. For a while, she drew ragged, high-pitched breaths before finally managing a faint cry: "Ah... How terrifying..." However, this mysterious old woman—as if having reached her limit—then explicitly defined the criminal’s scope. "This case might as well be concluded. It concerns that circle of negative numbers. Within the pentagram perfectly enveloping the motive, not even Mephisto could find a crevice to slip through. Therefore, if you grasp the wilderness’s meaning I described earlier, there remains nothing more to say." As she abruptly tried to stand, Hōsui hurriedly restrained her.

“However, Ms. Kuga, that wilderness was indeed the light of German theology.” “But this fatalism is the false light into which Tauler and Suso once fell.” “Within your Theory of Psychic Germination, I discovered an astonishing clinical depiction—something so aberrant it feels maddening even to hear.” “Why do you persist in contemplating Dr. Sanzō’s heart—that Great Demon Spirit...the King of Hearts?” “Ha ha ha ha! Ms. Kuga, I may not be Lavater,” “Yet I am versed in discerning inner truths through outward appearances.”

Sanzō’s heart—at this, not only Chinako but also Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō hardened as though instantly fossilized. That was clearly beginning to shake the very pillars of their minds from their foundations—likely the greatest horror this case had yet produced. Yet Chinako replied with a feigned look of derision.

“In that case, do you mean to compare human and animal faces like that Swiss pastor?”

After slowly lighting his tobacco, Hōsui revealed his subtle faculties. Then, the countless irrationalities that had been dispersed like a hundred flowers with a thousand petals were swiftly drawn to that singular point.

“It may be merely a product of hypersensitive nerves—but regardless, you referred to Dr. Sanzō as the King of Hearts.” “From that moment onward, I sensed an uncanny atmosphere encroaching.” “The reason being that I had heard precisely identical phrasing from Ms. Nobuko’s own lips.” “Undoubtedly, this unconscious convergence possesses value as this case’s final trump card.” “It may prove a monster capable of overturning—from its very roots—the orthodox methods of deductive measurement we’ve pursued thus far.” “Particularly in your case, accompanied as it was by pantomime-like psychological effects—this granted me leverage to excavate your psyche’s depths still further.” “Now according to the Vienna New Psychology School, they term this phenomenon ‘symptomatic seizure.’ While engaged in such aimless unconscious motions, subconscious elements most readily surface—or phrased differently: matters one wishes to keep buried emerge through external expressions when subjected to suggestive impulses.” “That suggestive impulse was none other than my referring to Sanzō as the King of Spades.” “Yet prior to that moment—my mere utterance of ‘Digsby,’ though you remain ignorant of his true nature—had already ensnared your mind.” “Thus manifested your symptomatic seizure—unconsciously removing and replacing your ring, spinning it ceaselessly.” “Therefore I inserted a pause—one artfully designed to provoke.” “This pause proves essential not merely for theatricality but particularly for interrogations.” “Now Ms. Kuga—though our culprit fancies themselves a playwright—they never script stage directions.” “Hence an investigator must become an exemplary director above all else.” “But forgive my verbosity.” “What demands foremost apology is my trespass into your psyche’s depths without awaiting consent...”

Thereupon, Hōsui took out a fresh cigarette and began expounding his much-vaunted theatrical methods. “Yet that interval remains formless chaos.” “Within it, various psychological phenomena converge in a cross shape, swelling like cumulonimbus clouds as they drift across consciousness’ surface.” “That state must have been so fragile it wouldn’t last a moment if any impulse struck.” “So I introduced the term ‘King of Spades.’” “For if we consider the psyche an organic whole, something physical must inevitably emerge from it.” “Through that highly suggestive remark, I anticipated some reaction.” “Then—precisely as expected—you rephrased it as ‘King of Hearts.’” “The King of Hearts himself.” “In that moment, I received a revelation bordering on madness.” “But then a second impulse seized you—you lost composure, slipping the ring onto your pinky finger.” “How could I miss the terror in your eyes then?” Hōsui’s words cut sharply mid-sentence, dread etching his features.

“No, it is I who felt a far more oppressive terror.” “Because when you look at the playing cards, every figure has its upper and lower torso joined diagonally with a leftward slant—in each case, the vital heart portion concealed beneath the opponent’s resplendent sleeveless surcoat.” “And that—the heart excised from the image has been placed as a pictorial seal at the upper right edge, has it not?” “If that is so—though this may be my overreach—how could one overlook the gruesome light gleaming within? Ah, the heart lies to the right!” “Therefore, if we interpret your ‘King of Hearts’ utterance precisely as your own heart dictates—that is, if we posit Dr. Sanzō as an anomalous constitution bearing his heart on the right side—then this very interpretation might become the first light to sweep away all these splintered irrationalities in one stroke.”

This astonishing deduction was—following the earlier unearthing of Oshikane Tsutako—truly the second grand theatrical revelation of the case. Captivated by this superhuman logic, both Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō wore faces gone numb, left utterly speechless. Of course, one lingering doubt remained. Yet Hōsui proceeded to present corroborating evidence, breathing eerie life into his claims.

“Now, if that were indeed true, we could no longer remain composed.” “Because at that time, Dr. Sanzō had pierced the left ventricle of his left chest—nearly at its very edge—but the circumstances of his suicide were so unequivocal that no one saw fit to demand an autopsy of the corpse.” “Then, the first question becomes whether penetrating the lower lobe of the left lung would truly result in instant death—that is the issue.” “As evidence, even during the South Asian War when surgical techniques were relatively rudimentary, in cases with short evacuation distances, almost all patients made full recoveries.” “Ah yes, that South Asian War…” Hōsui bit down firmly on the end of his cigarette, his voice dropping to a hushed tone as his expression took on something akin to dread. “By the way, there exists a report collection titled *South Asian War Military Medical Records* compiled by Mackenzie. Within it is listed a miracle that closely mirrors Dr. Sanzō’s case.” “It states that a dragoon sergeant major who had been stabbed in the upper right chest with a Western sword during combat was revived in his coffin sixty hours later.” “However, Mackenzie, the renowned surgeon and editor, provided the following view on it.” “The cause of death was likely due to the superior vena cava being compressed by the back of a Western sword, causing temporary narrowing of the blood vessel, which undoubtedly resulted in a drastic reduction in blood supply to the heart.” However, those congested and swollen blood vessels likely experienced a sort of physical influence because whenever the corpse’s position shifted, the hemothorax blood would flow. In other words, this effect is thought to be a kind of friction-like action that often resuscitates the corpse’s heart. For the heart is fundamentally a physical organ, and as Professor Brown-Séquard asserted, even during apparent death, subtle pulsations—undetectable by auscultation or palpation—must have persisted (Professor Brown-Séquard of the University of Paris and Lecturer Sio reported dozens of cases where human hearts were observed continuing to beat). That is to say, it proves that the heart still retains sufficient strength—or in other words, it does not prove the complete cessation of cardiac activity. Of course, those pulsations are inaudible externally)—that is the inference Mackenzie has drawn. “In that case, Ms. Kuga, how on earth should I deal with this paranoia?”

From Sanzō's anomalously positioned heart, Hōsui found himself fixating not on fanciful notions of resurrected corpses, but on a far more concrete scientific apprehension. Yet at that moment, a desperate resolve suddenly flashed through Chinako—she who had been waging a silent battle of anguish within. Conscientious toward truth to her very core, she had crushed through terror and anxiety alike.

“Ah, I will tell you everything. Indeed, Dr. Sanzō was an individual with an anomalous constitution who had his heart on the right side. However, above all else, I find it suspicious that Dr. Sanzō would have chosen to pierce his right lung when committing suicide. Therefore, as a test, I administered a subcutaneous injection of ammonia into the corpse. However, in that very place, a vital red hue—distinct and characteristic of living tissue—had clearly begun to spread. And what a terrifying thing that was! That thread had been cut by the morning after the burial. But I simply did not have the courage to visit Dr. Sanzō’s tomb.”

“About that thread—” The Prosecutor sharply retorted.

“It is as follows.” Chinako continued without hesitation. "In truth, Dr. Sanzō was someone who greatly feared premature burial—so much so that during the initial construction of this mansion, he had a large-scale underground tomb built." "And within it, he had secretly installed an anti-premature burial device resembling the Kornitse Karnitsky style—Karnitsky having been a chamberlain to Emperor Alexander III of Russia." “Therefore, on the night of the burial ceremony, I did not sleep a wink, waiting in vain for that electric bell to ring.” “However, since that night passed without incident, I waited for the rainy night to give way to morning and then went to check the tomb in the back garden just to be safe.” "To explain why—it is because a switch to ring the electric bell is hidden within the horse chestnut thicket surrounding that area." "And what do you suppose I found?" “Between the switch’s contacts, a Japanese tit chick had become lodged, and the string to pull the handle had been severed.” “Ah, that thread must undoubtedly have been pulled from within the coffin underground.” "Moreover, both the coffin and the lid of the above-ground coffin niche can be easily opened from the inside."

“I see. So if that’s the case…” Hōsui swallowed his saliva and adopted a somewhat confrontational tone of questioning. “Who exactly knows that fact—who and who?” “In other words, who knows the location of Sanzō’s heart and that anti-premature burial device?”

“In that case, I can definitively state that only Dr. Oshikane and myself possess that knowledge.” “Therefore, what Ms. Nobuko mentioned—all that business about the King of Hearts—I can only think must surely be nothing more than a coincidental correspondence.” When she finished speaking, Chinako’s face suddenly flushed with terror—as though dreading Sanzō’s retaliation. Then, with a completely transformed demeanor from when she had arrived, she requested personal protection from Kumajirō and left the room. A night of heavy rain—that would erase all traces straying out from the tomb.

And if Sanzō were indeed alive, he could transpose the entirety of these bizarre inversions—all that has shrouded the case in obscurity—directly into the realm of empirical reality. Inspector Kumajirō let out a harsh roar as if agitated.

“No matter what it takes, I’ll try everything I can.” “Come on, Hōsui! Whether we have a warrant or not, this time we’re excavating Sanzō’s tomb.”

“No, I still think it’s too soon to question the investigation’s legitimacy,” Hōsui responded with a troubled expression, his words trailing off. “But consider this! Didn’t Chinako say only she and Dr. Oshikane knew about that? Then how could Levez—who shouldn’t have known—direct the rainbow toward someone other than Sanzō while achieving such spectacular results?” “A rainbow?!” the Prosecutor muttered irritably. “Hōsui, I might as well call you the Adams or Le Verrier who detected Sanzō’s cardiac anomaly. Isn’t that right? In this case, Sanzō is our Neptune. After all, that planet first scattered celestial irregularities before being discovered itself.”

“That’s absurd. How could that rainbow be lacking in such probability? Is it coincidence... or Levez’s exquisite fantasy?” Hōsui declared, as ever wielding verbal acrobatics of the most eccentric sort. “To rephrase—it is that man’s noble spirit of classical philology. By the way, Shikura, weren’t there traces of Levez’s footprints on the stepping stones of the Fountain of Astonishment? First, we must interpret them as verse. Initially, among the four stepping stones, he stepped on the one along the main building. Then next the opposite one, ending with left and right. However, the deepest significance in that cycle lay in the fifth step—the one we had overlooked. That was the first stone along the main building that he had initially stepped on—in other words, Levez returned to the original starting point after completing a cycle, thereby stepping on the first stone twice.”

“But ultimately, what phenomenon did that actually produce?” “In other words, it compelled us to acknowledge Nobuko’s alibi—or phenomenologically speaking, it induced convection in the mist that ascended skyward. When examining the sequence from one to four, the right side of the last ascended mist would be highest, followed by those below in order, gradually descending to form a shape nearly resembling a question mark. Then, as the fifth mist rose—propelled by that convective motion—the four mists that had been on the brink of falling would ascend once more while preserving their configuration. Consequently, a convective relationship necessarily arose between it and the final mist. That, within air utterly devoid of tremors, set the fifth mist adrift in gentle undulation. To put it precisely, those numbered one through four were required to channel the last ascended mist toward a specific point—in other words, they were indispensable for determining its directional vector.”

“I see. So that mist was what generated the rainbow?” Prosecutor Shikura nodded while biting his nail. “Indeed, with just that one fact, Nobuko’s alibi will be corroborated.” “That woman saw an anomalous vapor entering through the window—because she said so, you see.” “However, Prosecutor Shikura, that location isn’t where the window was open.” “You’re aware they kept the lattice horizontal at that time and left the armored door half-ajar.” “In other words, the fountain’s mist infiltrated through gaps in that lattice,” Hōsui fastidiously clarified before identifying the sole individual ensnared by that rainbow’s curse. “Otherwise, such vividly chromatic hues would never manifest.” “Because its origin lay not in atmospheric mist but in dewdrops accumulated upon the latticework.” “The crux resided in what formed the seven-colored backdrop—but an even greater condition governed the viewing angle of that rainbow.” “To rephrase—where the fire crossbow fell marks precisely where the culprit stood.” “Moreover, that monocular leading actress—”

“What?! Oshikane Tsutako?!” Inspector Kumajirō shouted, losing all composure. “They say there’s a golden jar at both legs of a rainbow.” “Only that particular rainbow could have been captured.” “Because you see, Inspector Kumajirō—in any rainbow, red first appears at a visual radius of approximately forty-two degrees.” “Naturally, that position aligns precisely with where the fire crossbow had fallen.” “Moreover, if we set that crimson hue against Mrs. Krivov’s red hair symmetrically, you can imagine a glaring intensity that would utterly defy normal standards.” “However,” Hōsui paused momentarily before continuing with a smug half-smile, “a rainbow viewed at close range splits into two bands, its colors growing pale and feeble.” “Yet this absolutely does not apply to Oshikane Tsutako.” “The reason being—when viewed through a single eye—a rainbow appears undivided.” “Furthermore, the intense contrast between light and dark makes colors so vivid that nearby objects of matching hues become indistinguishable.” “Ah—that wandering bird first manifested as Levez’s love letter flying through the window.” “And when it chanced to envelop Mrs. Krivov’s red-haired neck—if we’re to speak of flaws causing missed targets—there’s none but Tsutako who fits.”

“I see.” “However, you just now called the rainbow Levez’s love letter, didn’t you?” Prosecutor Shikura questioned with an expression of self-doubt, having caught this anomaly. Hōsui responded with a lamenting air, delivering his signature psychological analysis. “Ah, Prosecutor Shikura, you perceive only this case’s shadowed facet.” “Because you’ve forgotten Nobuko appeared at the window moments before Mrs. Krivov’s suspension.” “Thus when Levez saw her there—assuming she occupied the armory—he versified his ideal rose by the fountain.” “Tell me—do you recall the final stanza of *The Song of Solomon*?” “‘O my beloved, I entreat you—hasten.’” “‘Hanging over fragrant mountains—be like a deer, like a young deer.’” “Within that aching passion lies divine yearning—the world’s supreme love poetry—yet it likens a lover’s heart to a rainbow.” “Those seven hues become Baudelaire’s tropical fervor or Child’s solemn Old Catholic longing.” “Modern analysts compare its parabola to tobogganing downslope psychology.” “They’ve enshrined the rainbow as romantic psyche’s emblem.” “Don’t you see? Those seven colors mirror a master colorist’s palette.” “Each corresponds to piano keys.” “The rainbow’s arc embodies chromatic theory, melodic structure, counterpoint.” “For as it moves, each two-degree shift alters visible hues.” “Thus Levez dispatched Nobuko verse—a love letter shaped as rainbow.”

According to this account, Hōsui had initially appeared to interpret Levez’s crafting of the rainbow as a chivalrous act meant to protect another party. Yet as he probed deeper and ultimately reduced it to matters of romantic psychology, he found himself forced to attribute the culprit’s failure to strike Mrs. Krivov fatally to mere happenstance. For Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō however—precisely because none of this bore empirical verification—their state transcended mere skepticism into raw vexation: Why did Hōsui fixate on such fanciful notions as rainbows instead of exhuming Sanzō’s grave, the investigation’s pivotal task? This singular frustration gnawed at them most acutely. Moreover, it would never have crossed their minds that Levez’s amorous psychology might later precipitate this case’s ultimate tragedy; nor could they possibly have detected how Hōsui’s implication of Oshikane Tsutako concealed a far graver implied concept beyond superficial accusation. Thus did this once-despaired case undulate anew with developments during their brief interrogation—until at last they resolved to investigate behind the grand staircase, that phenomenological locus upon which all hopes now rested. The time was five-thirty.

2. Behind the Grand Staircase…

The answer Hōsui derived from the zodiac—behind the grand staircase, there were two small rooms that corresponded to that location. One was the room where the Thérèse doll stood enshrined, and the other lay adjacent—an empty chamber stripped bare of furnishings. Hōsui first chose the latter, grasping its handle to find no lock engaged; it swung open without a whisper. Architecturally devoid of windows, the interior yawned into pitch-black darkness. Soot-laden frigid air grazed their skin. Yet as Kumajirō advanced along the wall—flashlight beam slicing the void—Prosecutor Shikura halted abruptly behind him. The prosecutor stifled his breath in visceral dread, ears straining—then turned to Hōsui with a tremor-laced whisper.

“Hōsui, can’t you hear that? I can hear a bell-like sound coming from the next room. Pray listen intently. There—do you hear it? Ah, that is indeed Thérèse’s automaton walking—”

Indeed, just as Prosecutor Shikura had said, intermingled with Inspector Kumajirō's heavy footfalls came a faint, quivering tinkle like tiny bells. The footsteps of an inanimate automaton—it was an astonishment that froze the very marrow of their souls. Yet if this were true, they could not help but imagine some presence lurking beside the mechanical figure. At that moment, the three found themselves thrust to a pinnacle of exhilaration unlike anything they had ever known. No time remained for hesitation—as Inspector Kumajirō wrenched at the handle with hurricane force, Hōsui abruptly exploded into raucous laughter.

“Hahahaha, Prosecutor Shikura—the Neptune you speak of is actually within this wall.” “Because that star was never part of our known variables from the very beginning.” “Recall, if you will—what sort of fine engravings were inscribed on the door of the automaton clock in the Ancient Clock Room?” “Four hundred years ago, Chijiwa Seizaemon received a ladder-shaped koto from Philip II—after which its whereabouts became unknown to all.” “That sound was likely a severed string trembling and ringing from vibrations—” “First came the heavy automaton walking along the adjacent room’s wall.” “And next comes Inspector Kumajirō now.” “In other words—the ‘answer’ regarding behind the grand staircase refers to this very wall bordering the adjacent room.”

However, no matter where they searched across that wall surface, there was no trace of a hidden door being present. There, they had no choice but to destroy part of it. Inspector Kumajirō first tested the acoustics by knocking, then swung his hatchet at a promising section and struck the panel—indeed, from within came a clamor like countless resonating strings. As wood fragments splintered away and he wrenched one loose with his hatchet, frigid air seeped out from behind the paneling—revealing a hollow cavity between two walls. In that instant—as if they might grasp some demonic secret passage from the darkness—their synchronized gulps echoed audibly. With each strike came discordant notes from the ladder-shaped koto's strings—a ghastly cacophony resembling maddened birds—as Inspector Kumajirō continued demolishing surrounding panels. When he finally emerged from that dust-choked section, he heaved a great sigh mid-labored breath and thrust a book at Hōsui. Then he spoke in an utterly spent voice.

“There’s nothing—no hidden door, no secret staircase, no trapdoor.” “This single volume was all we managed to obtain.” “Oh, to think this is what they call the solution to the Zodiac Secret Cipher...” Hōsui too found it difficult to recover immediately from this shock. Clearly this signified a doubly weighted disappointment. Now as for why—precisely because Digsby had been the architect, they had utterly failed to discover the secret passage whose existence had seemed almost beyond doubt—that went without saying. Yet simultaneously, the location of the tremolo became clear—that fragile thread which had barely sustained the assumption of the automaton’s culpability as initially posited in Mrs. Dannenberg’s own handwriting at the case’s outset. Therefore here at last they could no longer deny that ominous specter of the Provençal man. However, when he returned to the previous room and opened that volume, Hōsui stiffened as if struck by horror. Yet in his eyes there vividly appeared a look of astonishment.

“Ah, how utterly astonishing!” “This is Holbein’s *The Dance of Death*. What’s more—it’s the 1538 Lyon first edition, so rare it verges on mythical.” Within its pages lay Digsby’s final will, now laid bare forty years later as if prophesying the macabre dance of death that had unfolded at Kuroshikan. Opening the tea-colored calfskin cover revealed Holbein’s dedicatory epistle to Jeanne de Tousael on the inner lining, followed by documentation attesting to Lützelburger’s transfer of Holbein’s designs to woodblocks in Basel during 1530. Yet as Hōsui turned through pages crowded with death gods and cadavers, his gaze abruptly locked upon one particular spread. The left page showed a skeletal warrior skewering a knight’s torso with an enormous spear like a kabob, while the right swarmed with skeletons blaring long trumpets, honking horns, and pounding drums in drunken triumph. There, in the upper margin, an English inscription glared back— —unmistakably Digsby’s own hand from the ink’s peculiar hue and every other telltale sign, confronting them for the first time.

“Quean locked in Kains. Jew yawning in knot. Knellkaragoz!Jainists underliebelow inferno.” —(Interpretive translation for readability). The wanton woman is chained among Cain’s kin, and the Jew laughs amidst conundrums. Awaken the puppet (Karagöz—a Turkish marionette) with the death knell, and the Jainists (a sister religion sharing many commonalities with Buddhism) shall lie at the bottom of hell.

(The above is an interpretive reading for clarity.)

And the following passage continued. In terms of its meaning, it seemed to be showering ironic mockery upon Genesis.

―(Interpretive translation for readability). Jehovah God was androgynous. In the beginning, He Himself didst labor and didst beget twins. The first to emerge from the womb was a female, whom He didst name Eve, and the next was a male, whom He didst name Adam. However, when Adam didst face the sun, though his upper half above the navel didst follow the sun and cast a shadow behind, his lower half below the navel didst oppose the sun and cast a shadow before him. God, greatly astonished at beholding this wonder and awed by Adam, didst take him as His own child. Yet Eve, being no different from ordinary folk, He made her a handmaid. And when He didst labor with Eve, she conceived and bore a daughter, then died. God didst send down that daughter to the mortal world and didst cause [her] to become the mother of humankind.

Hōsui merely glanced through it, but Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō persisted in scrutinizing the text for several minutes. However, though they finally tossed it onto the desk with a bored gesture, it remained an undeniable fact that Digsby’s cursed will—pervading those lines—loomed with overwhelming force.

“Indeed, this is unmistakably Digsby’s confession—but could there truly be such a dreadful venomous scheme?” Prosecutor Shikura looked at Hōsui, his voice trembling with realization. “Certainly, the term ‘wanton woman’ in the text refers to Thérèse.” “Then, the outcome of this love triangle between Thérèse, Sanzō, and Digsby—naturally locked away among Cain’s kin—becomes glaringly clear through that single line.” “And so, Digsby first presented this mansion with a conundrum—only to then laugh amidst its tangled knot of complexities,” Prosecutor Shikura said, nervously intertwining his fingers and looking up at the ceiling. “Ah, then comes ‘Awaken the puppet with the death knell’—isn’t it?” “Now, Hōsui, that enigmatic man Digsby had even foreseen the spectacle of these Orientals tumbling headlong into hell.” “In other words, the genesis of this case lies forty years in the past.” “Already at that time, that man had determined every role in this incident—down to the most minor parts!”

That Digsby’s will constituted a terrifying curse was evident from his use of Holbein’s *The Dance of Death* alone to record it. But what was even more horrifying was his relentless preparation of multiple layers of secret ciphers. If one were to speculate, it seemed to be a scheme where an astonishing plan had been left somewhere, veiling the misfortune it would brew through exceedingly complex secret ciphers, all while secretly sneering at the sight of people struggling to unravel them. In other words, could it be that the depth of these secret ciphers was directly proportional to the development of this case—? However, Hōsui had pointed out elements within the text that even Digsby should not have permitted—ignorance of basic grammar and the absence of articles—but when he reached the next Genesis-like strange passage, not only were the two texts interconnected, everything took on an appearance as if enveloped in mist.

Then, in order to request Dr. Oshikane to unseal the will, Hōsui and the others went down to the hall on the lower floor. In the hall, Dr. Oshikane and Hatatarō had been sitting facing each other, but upon seeing the group, they stood up to greet them. Dr. Oshikane Ekisuke was a gentleman in his fifties with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair that harmonized with his oval facial contour; each of his features corresponded elegantly, exhibiting symmetrical refinement. Overall, he lacked the dreamy quality typical of humanitarians while suggesting a profound capacity for empathy. Upon seeing Hōsui, Dr. Oshikane bowed courteously and repeatedly expressed gratitude for having saved his wife from death's spectral shackles.

However, once everyone had taken their seats, Dr. Oshikane was the first to speak, his tone disinterested.

“What on earth has happened? Mr. Hōsui. Won’t everyone be reduced to elements before long? Who on earth is the culprit? My wife states that she did not see that vision.”

“Indeed, it is an utterly mystical case,” Hōsui replied, retracting his outstretched leg and resting one elbow on the table. “So whether fingerprints are obtained or the thread is cut, it remains utterly futile. In short, without unraveling that profound grand scheme, resolving this case proves impossible. It’s the moment when an examiner turns visionary.”

“No, I’ve never been skilled at such philosophical debates,” said Dr. Oshikane warily, blinking as he looked at Hōsui. Then he continued, “Yet you mentioned a thread just now. Hahaha—does that bear some relation to a warrant? Mr. Hōsui, I’d rather stay as I am and coolly observe the law’s authority from afar.” His words already betrayed opposition to unsealing the will.

“That goes without saying.” “We don’t have any search warrant or anything like that.” “But if this could be settled with just one resignation, we might even resort to breaking the law,” Inspector Kumajirō declared, glaring resentfully at the doctor as he demonstrated unorthodox resolve. In the suddenly charged atmosphere, Hōsui said calmly.

“Indeed, it is precisely a single thread— “In other words, the crux lies in the night of Dr. Sanzō’s burial. “You did stay at this mansion that evening, did you not? “Yet had that thread remained unbroken then—had that been so—today’s tragedy would never have occurred. “Ah, that will… “Under those circumstances, it might have endured as the spiritual testament of Sanzō’s entire life.”

Dr. Oshikane’s face turned ashen and rapidly grew pallid, but Hatatarō, unaware of the truth about the thread, forced an unnatural smile and murmured. “Ah, I thought you were talking about the crossbow’s string.” However, Dr. Oshikane stared fixedly at Hōsui’s face and pressed him with a confrontational question. “I must say, I can’t quite grasp the words you’re speaking—but ultimately, what are you asserting the contents of that will to be?”

“I currently believe it to be blank paper,” Hōsui suddenly narrowed his eyes and uttered a truly unexpected statement.

"To explain in greater detail—the contents had been altered to blank paper at a certain juncture—or so I posit." "Nonsense! What are you suggesting?" The doctor's look of astonishment transformed instantly into loathing. He stared fixedly at his interlocutor—who appeared to be shamelessly deploying transparent stratagems—when abruptly some realization seemed to strike him; setting down his tobacco with deliberate calm, he began to speak.

“Then allow me to recount the circumstances under which the will was created, so I may rid you of such delusions… That day was, I believe, March 12th of last year. The late master suddenly summoned me—and when I wondered what it might concern, he informed me he had spontaneously resolved to draft his will here that very day.” “Then, the two of us—myself and the late master—entered the study, and from a chair set apart, I watched as he busily drafted the document.” “It was written on about two sheets of octavo-sized letter paper, but once completed, he sprinkled gold powder over it and then pressed down with a revolving seal.” “You are no doubt aware that he handled everything in an antiquated manner—that is to say, his penchant for reviving old customs—I presume.” “Once that was done, he stored those two sheets in the drawer of the safe, posted strict guards both inside and outside the room that night, and decided to make the announcement the following day.” “However, come morning, with the family lined up before him, the late master—for reasons unknown—abruptly tore one of those sheets to pieces.” “And then, he set fire to those torn shreds, crushed the ashes into dust, and finally threw it all out the window into the rain.” “Even observing those meticulously executed actions—as if fearing their recreation—there can be no doubt that their contents were an abnormally fierce secret.” “And then he strictly sealed the remaining sheet, stored it in the safe, and instructed me to open it one year after his death.” “Therefore, that safe has not yet reached the time to be opened.” “Mr. Hōsui, I simply cannot bring myself to deceive the deceased’s wishes.” “But in the end, what we call the law is nothing more than a senile breeze, I suppose.” “No matter how secretive its splendid beauty may be, that uncouth wind will show no mercy whatsoever.” “Very well—I shall content myself with observing you all proceed as you will, indefinitely,” the doctor declared triumphantly, but a look of anxiety that had been flickering in and out until now suddenly spread across his entire face.

"But I cannot let that one remark of yours go unheard." "Very well—on the night of its creation, it was guarded under strict surveillance—and the late master stored the remaining sheet he had burned in the safe—along with both the cipher for matching characters and the key—" he began, thrusting forth the codebook and key from his coat pocket. And then, he slammed them down roughly onto the table with a clatter. "Well then, Mr. Hōsui—wit and nonchalance won’t open that door, will they?" "Or perhaps thermite?" "But in any case, for you to utter such bizarre statements, you must undoubtedly have substantial grounds."

Hōsui blew smoke rings toward the ceiling and mused. "No, it's truly a peculiar thing." "In fact, today I find myself profoundly bound by threads and strings of fate." "In short, I believe it was precisely that thread not breaking at the time which caused the will's contents to be lost." Though the depths of Hōsui's implication remained obscure, Dr. Oshikane convulsed as if electrified throughout his entire being, appearing utterly overwhelmed by some singular revelation from the detective. With his pallid face rigid, he sank into silent meditation for a time before rising with grim resolve to declare:

“Very well.” “To dispel your misconception, I have no choice but to proceed.” “I shall break my promise with the late master and open the will here today.” After that, until the two returned, not a single person made a sound. In each mind, thoughts of every kind whirled turbulently like a vortex. Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō anticipated developments in the case, while Hatatarō seemed to lie in wait for something within that unsealing—something that might overturn his disadvantage in a single stroke. Before long, the two figures reappeared, a large envelope clutched in Hōsui’s hand. Yet the moment he cut open the seal under their collective gaze and glimpsed its contents, anguished disappointment flooded Hōsui’s face. Ah—here too, one hope had crumbled away. Within lay nothing extraordinary—only several plainly worded provisions.

1. The estate shall be distributed equally to Hatatarō along with Gretchen Dannenberg and the three others below her. 2. Furthermore, as already established under this mansion’s perpetual injunctions—any who venture outside the mansion’s grounds, engage in romantic relationships or marriage, or disclose the contents of this document shall be immediately deprived of their rights. However, the lost portion shall be divided proportionally and distributed equally among the others. The above has also been communicated orally to each.

Even Hatatarō showed signs of similar disappointment, but being young as he was, he immediately spread both arms wide and ignited with joy.

“This is it, Mr. Hōsui! At last, I’ve become free through this.” “To tell the truth, I’d considered digging a hole in some corner and screaming into it.” “But when I reflect—if I’d done such a thing that day, how could that dreadful Mephisto have spared me?”

And so, Dr. Oshikane finally won the bet against Hōsui. However, Hōsui’s true intent in asserting that the contents were blank paper was apparently nothing of the sort. Of course, that single remark must have proven effective in restraining the doctor through some inexplicable stratagem—but deep down, he had likely been gasping for the missing half-page of the apocalypse diagram. And he must have had no choice but to conclude this scrutinized scene in futility. Yet strangely enough, even from the doctor who should have been triumphant, that nervousness did not abate as he spoke in an oddly timid, unnatural voice.

“With this, my responsibility has finally come to an end.” “However, whether the lid is opened or not, the conclusion remains self-evident.” “In short, the crux lies in the escalation of the equal distribution ratio.”

Therefore, Hōsui and the others decided to leave the great hall. He apologized profusely to Dr. Oshikane for the various troubles he had caused and left the room, but then, passing by the upper floor—for some reason—he alone entered Nobuko’s room.

Nobuko’s room displayed a somewhat Pompadour-inclined taste, with peach-colored paneling bordered by golden grapevine patterns, forming a bright study-style decor. To the left lay a narrow passage leading to the elongated study, while to the right beneath bellflower-hued drapery stood the bedroom. When Nobuko saw Hōsui, she calmly offered him a chair as if anticipating his arrival. "I had thought it about time you would come." "You must surely wish to inquire about Mrs. Dannenberg this time."

“No, absolutely not—the issue in question lies neither in that corpse luminescence nor in the crest wound.” “Of course, since there is no effective neutralizing agent for cyanide, even if you had drunk the same lemonade as Mrs. Dannenberg, that would hardly be worth considering as an example,” Hōsui began with a premise meant to reassure her, then continued, “Now, I hear you had an argument with Mrs. Dannenberg just before the Divine Inquisition that night—”

“Yes, I certainly did.” “But if there are doubts about that, if anything, they lie with me.” “As for me, I haven’t the faintest idea why that lady became so angry.” “The truth is, it was like this,” Nobuko answered without hesitation, showing no sign of scrutinizing her interlocutor. “It was about an hour after dinner, when I tried to retrieve Kaisersberg’s *The Legend of Saint Ursula* from the bookshelf—a book I needed to return to the library.” “I suddenly stumbled and struck the book I was holding against a large Qianlong glass vase in the corner, knocking it over.” “But then things took a strange turn.” “Well, I did make a terrible noise, but it wasn’t something worth being scolded over.” “And yet, Mrs. Dannenberg came immediately... there she was.” “Even now, I feel as though I cannot clearly grasp everything that happened.”

“No, Mrs. Dannenberg likely wasn’t scolding you.” “Anger mixed with laughter and lamentation—yet her focus wasn’t on you, but turned inward to interrogate her own sensations.” “That sort of abnormally split consciousness—it occasionally manifests in certain aberrant individuals, you see.” Hōsui stared fixedly at her face as if awaiting confirmation. “But the truth is absolutely not—” Nobuko denied firmly with grave sincerity before continuing, “—Mrs. Dannenberg at that moment was nothing but a monster of prejudice and madness.” “And that woman—with her nun-like temperament—made her voice quiver and her body writhe as she cruelly lashed out at me.” “‘Daughter of a saddler… lowborn trash,’ she said.” “‘Nursery matron at Tatsumigawa Academy’—that alone would have been bad enough, but she even called me a ‘parasitic vine.’” “No—even I… How it agonized me…” “Even if Dr. Sanzō showed me such kindness in life—to remain trapped in this mansion where I serve no purpose…” Her maidenly sorrow flared into rage before the tear-stained planes of her cheeks finally stilled. “So you see—this is precisely why I still cannot fathom it. Surely you now grasp everything.” “She never even acknowledged the noise I made through my carelessness.”

“I truly do sympathize with your position,” Hōsui said in a consoling voice, though inwardly he seemed to be anticipating something. “By the way, did you witness Mrs. Dannenberg opening this door? Where exactly were you at that time?”

“My, that’s so unlike you—you’re like some old-fashioned detective from the pre-psychology school,” Nobuko said with a dumbfounded expression at Hōsui’s question, then continued, “But unfortunately, I was away from the room at that time. The doorbell was broken, so I’d gone to the servants’ quarters to have them clean up the vase. Yet when I returned, there was Mrs. Dannenberg in the bedroom.” “Then you didn’t realize she’d been behind the curtain all along?”

“No, I believe she probably entered the bedroom to look for me.” “As proof—when I glimpsed that lady’s figure through a gap in the curtain—she had slightly extended her right shoulder from there and remained standing in that posture for some time.” “She then pulled a nearby chair closer and seated herself once again between the two curtains.” “Now tell me, Mr. Hōsui—not a single element of my testimony has touched upon Dr. Sanzō or Kuroshikan’s spiritualism, has it? After all, they do say honesty is the best policy.”

“Thank you.” “I have no further questions for you.” “However, let me caution you—even if this incident’s motive lies in the mansion’s inheritance, you must take thorough precautions regarding your own defense.” “Particularly, avoid frequent contact with family members—” “You’ll understand in due course—but for now, this remains the wisest course,” Hōsui concluded with meaningful emphasis before leaving Nobuko’s chamber. Yet as he departed, his eyes burned with peculiar intensity as they fell upon the wainscoting flanking the door’s right side. There protruded—as he’d noted upon entering—a splintered wood fragment three feet from the doorframe, snagging what appeared to be darkened textile fibers. Now, readers may recall the singular hook-shaped tear upon Dannenberg’s right shoulder—a detail harboring insoluble contradictions. For under normal circumstances, anyone entering would naturally shift sideways those three feet, rendering contact between shoulder and splinter wholly implausible.

Then Hōsui walked alone down the dark, quiet corridor. Midway, he stopped, opened a window, and exhaled deeply into the outside air. It was an act of profoundly composed observation. The moon must have been somewhere in the sky—a faint light poured down upon the observation tower, castle walls, and broadleaf trees that seemed to densely shroud them, leaving the entire vista before his eyes stagnant and blue like the seabed. The night wind swept across that grand panorama, spreading it southward like waves. Before long, something flashed through Hōsui’s mind—a notion that gradually swelled in magnitude. Yet he remained rooted there as if fearing even a breath’s touch, straining his ears intently. Then—after over ten minutes—the clatter of footsteps echoed from somewhere. As they faded into the distance from his ear, Hōsui’s body finally stirred, and he entered Nobuko’s room a second time. After two or three minutes inside, he reappeared in the corridor and now stood before Levez’s room on its opposite side. But when Hōsui pulled the door handle, he confirmed his conjecture had struck true. For in that instant came Levez’s gaze—that misanthropic melancholic’s stare now veiled in grotesque fervor—striking him like a wild beast exhaling savage breath as it lunged.

Part Seven: Hōsui Has Finally Strayed⁉

I. The hand of Saint Xavier...

It was when Hōsui deliberately muffled the sound and opened the door. At that moment, Levez sat on the chaise longue by the fireplace's edge, his face buried between his knees and temples crushed beneath clenched fists. Beneath long silver hair parted in Grosmann-style lay eyes blazing with feral light, fixedly glaring at crimson embers. This Levez—normally a melancholic misanthrope—now found his entire being shrouded in unprecedented passion. He incessantly clawed at his sideburns while emitting ragged breaths, each movement making deeply carved wrinkles convulse grotesquely across his visage. That monstrous ugliness—no vestige of tranquility or harmony could possibly dwell beneath such a skull. Undoubtedly, some mad obsession had taken root within Levez's psyche. This very compulsion now seemed to drive the middle-aged gentleman into bestial panting and frenzy.

However, when Levez saw Hōsui, the shadow of anguish vanished from his eyes, and he rose hazily like a mountain. In that transformation, there was something so vivid that one might have thought—had a separate Levez appeared? There was neither surprise nor disgust in his demeanor—only the same pale, mist-veiled countenance as ever. Yet on the side where his face remained unseen, one might have imagined a cunning one-eyed gaze flickering… That familiar, vague eeriness persisted, and even now, there was no sternness in him to reproach Hōsui’s discourtesy. Truly, Levez’s bizarre nature could be described as nothing other than a literal monster.

The room featured chamfered construction with lightning-pattern relief carvings blended with Mosque-inspired elements. Three angular ridges ran parallel from walls to ceiling, their numerous folds forming a latticework pattern. From the center of this ceiling hung an antique thirteen-candle decorative lamp. A strangely eerie yellowish light poured down from it onto the floor furnishings. After formally apologizing for not knocking, Hōsui sat on the bench facing Levez. Then Levez himself initiated, first giving a crafty-sounding dry cough before speaking.

“By the way, I hear you have now unsealed the will.” “So you’ve come to this room also intending to explain its contents to me.” “Hahaha! But Mr. Hōsui, that was surely meant to be a foolish game—no, I’ll tell you now.” “To tell the truth, unsealing it is tantamount to executing the will.” “In other words, that serves only to indicate the arrival of a deadline—and moreover, its contents must be carried out immediately.”

“I see….” “Indeed, if left as it is, there would be no room for prejudice—let alone illusion—to arise.” “But Mr. Levez, I have finally plumbed the abyss of motive beyond that will,” Hōsui declared, turning to him with a smile concealing something peculiarly thorny. “Now, regarding that matter, I must absolutely request your assistance.” “To tell the truth, I heard a strange nursery rhyme echoing from the depths of that abyss.” “Ah, that nursery rhyme—it was not, in fact, an auditory hallucination of mine.” “Of course, it is inherently highly illogical and absolutely cannot be measured in isolation.” “However, as I pursued and observed its projection, a constant emerged by chance within it.” “In other words, Mr. Levez, I would like you to determine that value…”

“What—an odd nursery rhyme⁉” he exclaimed in surprise, jerking his gaze up from the fireplace embers to Hōsui’s face. “Ah, I understand perfectly, Mr. Hōsui. In any case, let’s dispense with this transparent charade of yours. Why must someone as ferociously peerless as you—like some Kexholm Grenadier—resort to such a wretched pastoral ditty…? To stoop to chanting such a wretched pastoral ditty… Hahaha! O peerless one! If only you would act with proper majesty!” Seeing through his opponent’s scheme, Levez unleashed a scathing sarcasm. And he had already erected a wall of vigilance. However, Hōsui, with unflinching impassiveness, only grew calmer still.

“Admittedly, my deductions may have been somewhat overly theatrical. However—though you may mock my shallow learning for saying this—the truth is I have yet to read even *Discorsi* (‘History of Conspiracies’ by Machiavelli, that Florentine diplomat from the first half of the sixteenth century). Thus, as you see me now, I remain completely exposed—there can be neither traps nor schemes here. No—rather than that—at this juncture, I shall explain the case’s conclusion and acquaint you with even its unknown aspects.” Hōsui shifted his elbows on his knees and tilted his upper body while maintaining eye contact. “And having done so, I would then seek your further consent.”

“In other words, this means there are three undercurrents beneath the motives of this case.” “What?! Three undercurrents in the motives…” “No, it should assuredly be one.” “Mr. Hōsui—have you forgotten Tsutako? The one excluded from the inheritance distribution?”

“Well, let us set that aside for now. First, kindly lend me your ear,” Hōsui interjected, bringing up Digsby first. “Starting with deciphering the zodiac cipher method, I spoke of Holbein’s *Dance of Death* and explained the curse’s intent recorded within it. In other words, that matter was a secret affair from over forty years ago—from when Sanzō once traveled abroad.” “According to this, it becomes clear that a mad triangular love affair existed between Sanzō, Digsby, and Thérèse.” “And as a probable result of that, Digsby was likely defeated because he was Jewish.” “However, after that, an unexpected opportunity came to Digsby—that is to say, the construction of Kuroshikan.” “Mr. Levez, with what means do you suppose Digsby retaliated for his defeat?” “That single-minded malice—the will that reached its utmost severity—took form as…” “Therefore, under these circumstances, what immediately comes to mind is the nature of the three past mysterious deaths.” “In each of these cases, the lack of clear motives gives rise to truly bizarre implications.” “Also, in the fifth year after its construction, Sanzō renovated the interior.” “Perhaps that measure was also taken out of fear of Digsby’s retaliation, was it not?” “However, what is most startling is that Digsby prophesied today over forty years later, and within that cryptic document, the appearance of a doll is recorded.” “Ah, I cannot shake the feeling that Digsby’s malice still lingers somewhere within Kuroshikan.” “Moreover, there can be no doubt that it is a mysterious incarnation transcending human intellect.” “Ah, let me state it more bluntly.” “And we must scrutinize the veracity of Digsby’s purported suicide plunge in London—so I declare.”

“Hmm, Digsby….” “If that gentleman were indeed still living, he would have turned eighty this year.” “But Mr. Hōsui—if that’s all you meant by invoking a nursery rhyme…” Levez kept his derisive manner unaltered.

However, without engaging, Hōsui coolly moved on to the next item.

“Needless to say, Digsby’s groundless delusion and my baseless anxiety may have coincidentally aligned.” “However, when we come to Dr. Sanzō’s matter next—what no one would dismiss as mere misinterpretation—it takes on an uncanny vitality.” “Of course, the measures Dr. Sanzō implemented regarding inheritance distribution constitute one evident motive.” “Moreover, within those measures, five clan members from Hatatarō down to Tsutako are each included for their own distinct reasons.” “Yet another suspicion lies precisely in the punitive clauses of the will—for they appear practically unenforceable.” “Now then, Mr. Levez—even if we consider something as intangible as romantic affection—how could one possibly substantiate such matters?” “Therefore, perceiving Dr. Sanzō’s enigmatic will at work here—for me, it would be no exaggeration to call this a fresh doubt born from the will’s unsealing.” “Furthermore, this isn’t an isolated element—there appears to be a tenuous thread connecting…” “What I term an intrinsic motivating factor exists—something bridging those two points.” “So Mr. Levez—I shall speak with brutal frankness.” “Why do the birthplaces and social standings of you four differ from public records?” “To take Mrs. Krivov as an example—officially, she’s proclaimed as the fifth daughter of a Caucasian landowner.” “But in truth—isn’t she Jewish?”

“Hmm—how on earth did you discover that?” Levez involuntarily widened his eyes, but his shock was swiftly subdued. “Well, that’s probably an exceptional case unique to Mrs. Krivov.” “However, once an unfortunate coincidence has manifested itself, you must pursue it relentlessly. Not only that—on the other hand, contrasting with that fact—there exist corpse diagrams that suggest the clan’s peculiar constitutional traits.”

“Furthermore, once one associates that fact with the four of you having been brought to Japan in your childhood, Dr. Sanzō’s abnormal intentions become transparently clear.” Hōsui paused there briefly but took a deep breath and continued. “However, Mr. Levez, here lies a fact that even I myself find so extraordinary that I might question whether my own mind has gone astray. What I mean is that we have now reached near-certain confirmation regarding the theory of Dr. Sanzō’s survival—something previously dismissed as mere delusion.”

“Ah, what are you saying?!” In that instant, all sensation drained from Levez’s entire body. The force of the shock was so intense it stiffened even his eyelid muscles, and he began shouting incoherently like a mute. Afterward, he repeatedly questioned Hōsui until finally accepting the explanation, whereupon his whole body began trembling like a fever patient. He had become enveloped in terror and anguish of an intensity never before witnessed by anyone.

Before long, “Ah, so it was true after all.” “Once it begins to move, it will never stop,” he muttered in a low, rumbling voice. But then, as if struck by a sudden realization, Levez’s eyes blazed with intensity. “How strange—what an astonishing coincidence!” “Ah, Dr. Sanzō’s survival—.” “Undoubtedly, on the first night of this incident, he must have risen from the subterranean tomb—.” “That’s it, Mr. Hōsui—the kobold yet to appear! Make haste!—does this not correspond to the fourth of those pentagram curses?” “Indeed, it would have remained unseen by our eyes.” “Yet that note had already manifested prior to the Undine—in other words, within this horror tragedy, it emerged unnoticed during the prologue.” His face twisted with something between despair and mirthless laughter. To this fascinating interpretation by Levez, Hōsui nodded in earnest agreement—yet he progressively heightened the intensity of his speech.

“However, Mr. Levez, I have discovered another motive that is inseparably connected to the will.” “That is one of the prohibitions left by Dr. Sanzō—the psychology of love.” “What… love?” Levez stiffened slightly but retorted, glaring at him with undisguised loathing: “No—if it were your usual self, you’d likely call it ‘romantic desire’ or some such.” To this, Hōsui responded with a sneer—

“Ah, I see…” “But when someone like you speaks of ‘romantic desire,’ that very term takes on an increasingly criminal significance.” “However, as a premise to that, I must touch upon one point—the relationship between Dr. Sanzō’s survival and the kobold.” “Indeed, when it comes to its magical effect, there can be no doubt of its immense power.” “But Mr. Levez, ultimately, I believe this boils down to a question of proportion.” “You probably interpret that correspondence as an infinite symbol—believing this case akin to a tearful valley where eternal demons dwell.” “However, contrary to that, I know the hand of a benevolent guardian deity—Greathen—has already been extended to Dr. Faust.” “So why do I say that? How many people do you think remain who haven’t yet fallen victim to that demon?” “Therefore, given that the culprit possesses such intellect and insight, they must now perceive the danger in continuing their crimes.” “No—that’s not all.” “For the culprit now, there remains no reason to continue amassing corpses.” “In other words, with Mrs. Krivov’s shooting as the final act, that corpse-collecting compulsion has completely vanished.” “Now then, Mr. Levez—allow me to present one of the psychological specimens I’ve collected.” “While legal psychologists like Hans Riechel approach motive analysis projectively—I remain strictly measured even regarding motives.” “And I have already thoroughly probed the psychological profiles of all involved.” “According to that analysis—the culprit’s fundamental objective was directed solely at Mrs. Dannenberg.” “Therefore, incidents involving Mrs. Krivov and Ekisuke were attempts to misdirect toward inheritance—or make them appear as sadistic acts.” “Of course—someone like Nobuko represents insidious malice itself—a strategy unique to that fiend.” Hōsui finally took out his tobacco—the demonic resonance in his voice impossible to conceal. Next came his astonishing conclusion: “Therefore—this constitutes the psychology behind sending Nobuko the rainbow today—and prior to that—your secret romantic relationship with Mrs. Dannenberg.”

Ah, the relationship between Levez and Mrs. Dannenberg—not even a god could have known of it. In that very instant, Levez turned ashen like a corpse. His throat appeared to convulse spasmodically, his voice seemingly unable to emerge. While the ligaments in his neck twisted like whipcords, he stared vacantly into nothingness, as immobile as a statue. What followed was an agonizingly prolonged silence. Through the window came the vibrant rush of the fountain's spray, its droplets faintly luminous as they arced between stars. Though he had initially dismissed it as another of Hōsui's ploys and maintained full vigilance, the detective's unforeseen clairvoyance had ultimately breached his defenses. Thus was the pivotal juncture determining their contest resolved in this single stroke. At length, Levez weakly lifted his face, now suffused with quiet resignation.

“Mr. Hōsui, I am by nature a creature unswayed by fantasy.” “Yet you appear burdened with an excess of whimsical impulses.” “I shall concede to having sent the rainbow.” “But I categorically deny being the perpetrator.” “To speak of some relationship with Mrs. Dannenberg constitutes nothing less than outrageous calumny.”

“Oh, please rest assured. If this had been two hours ago, that would be a different matter—but now, even if that prohibition still stands, it has already been rendered void. No matter how many may try, it is now impossible for anyone to obstruct your inheritance. But the real problem lies with that rainbow and window…”

Then, even in his exhaustion, Levez showed a sorrowful expression and spoke. “Indeed, at that time, since Nobuko appeared by the window, I thought she was indeed in the armory and sent the rainbow.” “However, the rainbow in the sky is a parabola, and the water in the droplets is a hyperbola.” “Therefore, as long as the rainbow isn’t elliptical, Nobuko won’t come flying into my embrace.”

“However, there’s a strange coincidence here, you see.” “To elaborate—that demon arrow hoisted Mrs. Krivov and charged forward, and where it ultimately pierced was again that very same gate.” “In other words, your rainbow also entered through there—the lattice of the armored gate.” “Now then, Mr. Levez—the principle of karmic retribution isn’t solely confined to human destinies ordained by vengeful gods,” Hōsui murmured in an unnervingly casual tone, inching closer. At this, Levez stiffened his entire body and released a feeble sigh. But he immediately assumed a retaliatory stance.

“Ha ha ha ha, please cease your nonsensical rant. “Mr. Hōsui, if it were me, I would say that three-pronged arrow was fired from the vegetable garden in the rear courtyard.” “Because it’s now the height of the turnip season.” “You’re probably familiar with that rustic song—‘the arrowhead a turnip, the shaft a reed.’”

“Precisely, it holds true for this case as well.” “Turnips signify criminal phenomena—reeds represent motives.” “Mr. Levez, when it comes to one who combines both,” Hōsui’s tone abruptly turned ruthless, his entire body engulfed in what resembled leaping flames, “there exists none but you.” “Of course, Mrs. Dannenberg has departed this world, and Nobuko lacks any grounds to speak of it.” “Yet on the incident’s first night—when Nobuko shattered the vase—you were unquestionably present in that room, were you not?”

Levez involuntarily stiffened in shock, the hand gripping the armrest beginning to tremble eerily. “So you’re saying that because my pursuit of love toward Nobuko was discovered, I killed Mrs. Dannenberg to avoid losing my inheritance—is that it?” “Nonsense! That’s nothing but your own self-serving delusions.” “You’ve lost all sense of reason due to your warped fantasies.” “However, Mr. Levez, that very solution is one you yourself have repeatedly emphasized and should be well aware of.” “There lies a rose, and around it, the birds’ songs have ceased to resound—that is, a passage from Lenau’s *Autumn Heart*,” Hōsui stated in a quiet, refined tone, presenting his empirical method.

“By now you must have realized I used poetry as a mirror of mental imagery to reflect those involved in the case.” “I had scattered numerous symbolic clues.” “That is to say, I symptomatically interpreted corresponding signs and parallels to plumb the mind’s depths.” “Now regarding Lenau’s poem—through it I achieved a form of thought-reading.” “This refers to a psychological term called ‘associative analysis,’ which Reichert and other new school psychologists recommend employing even during preliminary judicial examinations.” “Because consider Münsterberg’s psychological experiment...” “First, subjects were shown paper with ‘Tumult’ written on it, then immediately had ‘Railroad’ whispered in their ear—whereupon they reportedly identified the written word as ‘Tunnel.’” “Thus when external organic forces act upon our associations, particular illusions necessarily arise.” “However, I applied my own interpretation—inverting the formula Tumult + Railroad = Tunnel by taking ‘1’ as the subject’s mental image, then extrapolating unknowns through ‘2’ and ‘3.’” “So after declaring ‘There lies a rose—’, I scrutinized every phrase you uttered.” “Then you began gauging my expression and suggested, ‘Perhaps you burned rose-infused frankincense—’” At this I felt a lancinating surge through my nerves. For both Catholic and Judaic rites recognize only Boswellia and Terebinthifera frankincense—hybrid varieties being liturgically forbidden. “Therefore ‘rose frankincense’ could only originate from something buried deep within your psyche, organically shaped by those very forces.” “Clearly this phrase sought to articulate some singular truth.” “Yet its meaning eluded me until moments ago, when I reinvestigated that room during Nobuko’s absence.” Hōsui deliberately lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply, and resumed.

“By the way, Mr. Levez—in that study room, there were bookshelves lining both sides, were there not? And *The Legend of Saint Ursula*, which Nobuko supposedly stumbled against and struck the vase with, was on the upper shelf of the bookcase right beside the entrance. However, that volume lacks sufficient weight to cause such a loss of balance.” Hōsui leaned forward slightly, his voice sharpening. “The true issue lay rather in Hans Schönsperger’s *Weissagend Rauch*—*Prophecy’s Incense Smoke*—that stood adjacent to it.” When I discovered this, an uncanny chill ran through me at the sheer precision of the coincidence. “Because that *Prophecy’s Incense Smoke* contains precisely the same formula as Münsterberg’s experiment.” His finger traced an invisible equation in the air. “The formula *Tumult + Railroad = Tunnel* maps perfectly to *Weissagend Rauch + Rosen = Rosen Weihrauch*. In other words—” his eyes locked onto Levez’s—“what we term *Prophecy’s Incense Smoke*—a concept drifting through your mind at the time—was guided by the rose, surfacing in consciousness as the phrase ‘rose frankincense.’” Hōsui’s voice dropped to a forensic murmur. “Thus my associative analysis reached completion—and with it, I understood why you couldn’t expunge that book’s title from your thoughts.” He paused, allowing the weight of revelation to settle before delivering the coup de grâce: “For when I meticulously reconstructed the room’s conditions, the truth behind Nobuko overturning the vase became clear—and there your visage materialized.” Having concluded this exposition of staged theatrics, he turned toward dissecting Nobuko’s movements. Then began Hōsui’s characteristically intricate physiological dissection.

“Therefore, once the existence of *Prophecy’s Incense Smoke* becomes clear, Nobuko’s lie naturally collapses.” “That woman claimed she struck the vase with *The Legend of Saint Ursula* as she stumbled.” “However, given that the vase in question was located at the far end of the entrance, when considering Nobuko’s position relative to the vase’s location at that time, there is absolutely no way such a scenario could have occurred.” “Unless Nobuko is left-handed, it would be utterly impossible for her to throw *The Legend of Saint Ursula* with her right hand over her head and strike the vase with it.” “That’s when I recalled Erb’s Point Reflex.” “When the upper arm is raised high, a mass of muscles swells between the clavicle and spine at the shoulder, and at its apex, a single point of the brachial nerve becomes apparent.” “Therefore, if a strong impact was applied to that point, a violent reflex movement would occur in the upper arm and below on that side, followed immediately by paralysis.” “No—in fact, the crime scene itself provided ideal conditions to trigger Erb’s reflex—precisely because the location where those two books were kept required raising both hands to reach them.” “But Mr. Levez, as I corrected Nobuko’s falsehoods, I suddenly found myself able to reconstruct the true events that occurred in that room at the time.” “This was when Nobuko, attempting to retrieve *The Legend of Saint Ursula*, reached her right hand toward the upper shelf of the bookcase.” At that moment, a sound came from somewhere in the room ahead. So, with the book still in her grasp, Nobuko turned to look behind her at the glass door of the bookshelf there. At that moment, the figure of a person emerging from the bedroom appeared in her eyes. “Therefore, in that moment of surprise, she must have disturbed the adjacent *Prophecy’s Incense Smoke*, causing that heavy wooden-bound tome of over a thousand pages to fall upon Nobuko’s right shoulder.” “And thus, owing to the sudden, intense reflex movement that occurred in that instant, she threw *The Legend of Saint Ursula*—which she had been holding in her right hand—over her head at the vase in her left hand. That is how it transpired.” “Now, Mr. Levez, in that case, through this *Prophecy’s Incense Smoke*, we can perform a psychological verification.” “In other words, we can assign an imaginary number to the person who had been hiding in the bedroom at that time.” “Imaginary numbers—however, hasn’t Riemann, through them, rescued the essential nature of space from being merely a three-dimensional expanse?” “No—let me be frank.” “At that moment, you emerged from the bedroom, heard the noise, went to Nobuko’s side, and pushed the fallen *Prophecy’s Incense Smoke* back into its original position.”

“And as you were leaving the room, Mrs. Dannenberg witnessed you—which enraged her, she who had maintained a secret relationship with Dr. Sanzō after his death.” “However, given the inheritance share prohibition, even Mrs. Dannenberg could not declare it openly.”

Throughout this, Levez remained seated with his clasped hands on his knees, listening intently. Yet even after the other party had finished speaking, his detached expression remained unchanged. He coldly declared.

“I see. That motive alone suffices. “But what you need above all now is even a single instance of complete legal significance. In other words, this time I demand your elucidation of the criminal phenomena. “Mr. Hōsui, in which of those chain links can you prove my face? “Indeed, for me, that *Prophecy’s Incense Smoke* shall become an eternal memory. “Also, by sending a rainbow, I tried to have Nobuko understand my feelings. “But even that alone could never fulfill my contract with Mephisto…. “No—before long, I will likely end up vomiting upon your pedantry.”

"Of course, Mr. Levez, but your poetic composition gave me illumination from the chaos. "In truth, the culmination of this case lay within Dr. Faust’s Total Confession manifested through that rainbow." "No—let me speak plainly." "That spectrum of colors was neither verse nor meditation—it was, in reality, the vicious gleam of a quenched blade." "Now then, Mr. Levez—you sniped Mrs. Krivov through that rainbow’s haze, did you not?" Hōsui abruptly contorted his features into a ferocious visage and hurled these deranged words. At that instant, Levez petrified as though turned to stone. The revelation that had flashed down from above must have been something wholly inconceivable in its unexpectedness to Levez. Bewilderment, shock—needless to say, in that fleeting moment, Levez had been stripped of every vestige of intellect. Yet rather than sympathizing with his adversary’s disintegration, Hōsui appeared to experience a brutal satisfaction. Adopting the manner of a predator toying with captured prey, he languidly parted his lips.

“In truth, that rainbow was a monstrous irony—a derisive mockery.” “By the way, are you familiar with Theodoric the Great, King of the Ostrogoths...? The tragedy of Ravenna Fortress?” “Hmm, even if his first shot missed, Theodoric had a dagger equivalent to a second arrow.” “But I am neither an ascetic nor a martyr.” “Rather than me, it is Dr. Faust who should speak of such purgatorial cycles!” Levez declared, his voice trembling and face brimming with loathing—for within the tragedy of Ravenna Fortress lay a scene eerily mirroring the Krivov incident.

(Note) In March of 493 CE, Odoacer, Regent of the Western Roman Empire, having been defeated in battle by Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths, holed up in Ravenna’s castle and finally sued for peace. At this peace treaty meeting, Theodoric ordered his retainer to target Odoacer with a Heidekrug bow, but as the string was slack and they failed to achieve their purpose, he had no choice but to stab him to death with a sword.

“However, there’s nothing to be done about that rainbow’s tattling,” Hōsui pressed his attack without pause, his eyes blazing with ferocity as he declared. “However, I must commend how you learned from Odoacer’s assassination stratagem—though as you are aware, the bowstring Theodoric used was woven from fibers of the dwarf elm tree, war spoils from King Heidekrug (chieftain of a North Germanic tribe).” “However, this plant fiber from the dwarf elm possesses the characteristic of expanding and contracting with temperature.” “Therefore, having been brought from the frigid north of Germany to the temperate climate of central Italy, even that formidable murder weapon of the northern barbarians had instantly lost its fearsome capabilities.” “Therefore, when I saw the string of that fire crossbow, I was prompted by an ominous premonition.” “And I wondered if it might be possible to artificially replicate that expansion and contraction of the dwarf elm.” “Now, Mr. Levez, at that time, the fire crossbow was mounted on the wall with the arrow nocked, its bow shape slightly tilted upward.” “And its height was precisely at our chest level.” “However, what requires attention here is the position of the nails supporting it.” “There were three flat-headed nails—two at the twists of the string, and the remaining one supporting the body frame directly beneath the firing handle.” “Of course, to enable automatic firing at that position, an opening of approximately twenty degrees from the wall had to be created.” “In other words, this insidious mechanism consisted of creating the angle I mentioned earlier, then tightening the bow without human assistance, and finally releasing this tension.” “And what was necessary for that was the chloral hydrate that once killed Tsutako,” Hōsui continued after recrossing his legs and taking out fresh tobacco. “By the way, are you aware that ether and chloral hydrate solutions possess cryogenic properties—to elaborate, that they steal heat from any surface they come into contact with?” “In other words, in this case, one of the three strands of dwarf elm fiber composing the twisted string is coated with chloral hydrate.” “Therefore, when mist from the fountain was directed there, that easily dissolvable anesthetic agent became frigid droplets, which gradually caused the coated strand to contract.” “Of course, it goes without saying that this force began tightening the bow like an archer.” “Then, as a result, the twists with the other two non-contracting strands would gradually loosen, causing the crossbow’s position to lower as they spread apart.” “Therefore, as it continued to descend with each fall, the upper twists—which bore stronger recoil—would slip free from the nails. At that point, the upper part of the crossbow would open, and as this happened, the firing handle on the body frame would tilt sideways. Consequently, the handle would be pressed by the nail, causing the arrow to fire at precisely the angle determined by how far it had opened.” “And due to the recoil of firing, the crossbow fell to the floor—but needless to say, once the contracted string had completely evaporated, it returned to its original state.”

"However, Mr. Levez, the original purpose of that scheme was not necessarily to take Mrs. Krivov’s life." "It was simply a matter of making your alibi even more ironclad." Throughout this, Levez, streaming with greasy sweat and eyes bloodshot like a beast’s, had been seeking any opening to counter Hōsui’s lengthy discourse, but in the end was overwhelmed by its rigorous logic. Yet driven by this despair, Levez stood up, struck his chest with a fist, assumed a ghastly visage, and began to roar.

“Mr. Hōsui.” “The evil spirit haunting this case is none other than yourself.” “But let me make one thing clear—before wagging that tongue of yours, you ought to read something like *The Marienbad Elegy* first.” “Now listen—suppose there existed a man seeking the eternal feminine ideal.” “Yet confronted by that spirit’s resigned beauty, all—ambition, rebellion, fury, youthful ardor—would be swept away like floodwaters breaching a dam.” “Yet you insist on painting nothing but shame and punishment upon it.” “No—this goes beyond mere depiction.” “The hunting party you command has today revealed its vulgar cruelty here and now.” “But surely the marksman knows—his prey cannot flee...”

“I see… Hunting, you say…” "But Mr. Levez, are you familiar with this Mignon?" “...That mountain path through clouds where mules seek their way in mist, where ancient dragon clans dwell in caverns...” As Hōsui formed a malicious half-smile, a faint rustle of fabric—like night wind—stirred at the entrance door. And gradually, down the corridor, a chanting voice faded into oblivion.

When the hunting party begins their encampment,

Clouds descended, and fog filled the valley. Night and dusk arrived as one.

That was the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Serena. However, when it reached his ears, Levez began to collapse onto the sofa as if in despair, but he managed to hold his ground. And he threw his head back sharply, breathing heavily, “Did you, at some point, persuade her by offering up a single sacrifice?” “I no longer have the strength to explain further.” “I’d rather you call off the guard.” “If this judgment is made with my blood, then someday you’ll hear it from the root of that tongue,” he declared with an air of unnatural resolve—incredibly refusing the guard. And he demanded that his disarmed and exposed form be laid bare before Dr. Faust. Ironically, Hōsui responded with consent and left the room.

In Mrs. Dannenberg’s room—where they habitually devised strategies and used as an interrogation chamber—Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō had already finished their supper. On the desk lay two plaster casts molded from backyard shoe prints and a pair of overshoes. It was then explained that these items—Levez’s possessions—had at last been discovered in the closet beneath the rear staircase.

By that time, Dr. Oshikane had returned to the mansion, and once the meal was finished, Hōsui in turn began to speak. And when he had finished recounting the details of his confrontation with Levez while refilling cups of red Barbera wine,

“I see, but…” Kumajirō nodded once, but then assumed a look of strong condemnation. “I’m appalled even by your aestheticism. What on earth is causing this delay in dealing with Levez? Just think about it. Up until now, the motive and criminal phenomena have been mismatched for everyone, and there has never been a single person proven to satisfy both. Anyway. If the overture’s done, let’s get on with raising the curtain. Indeed, those verbal sparring matches you’re so fond of might be intoxicating in a sense. However, do not forget that a conclusion is necessary for that premise—I beg you.”

“Don’t be absurd. Why on earth would Levez be the culprit?” Hōsui made a clownish gesture and burst into raucous laughter.

Ah, Hōsui—Child of the Century—had he truly prepared such a preposterous shift in motive for that tragic confession? Both Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō recognized they were being ridiculed, yet confronted with such meticulous reasoning, they found themselves unable to accept his claims outright. Then Hōsui laid bare the very nature of his sophistry while disclosing the bizarre role he had now imposed upon Levez from that point onward.

“Indeed, there’s no doubt that the relationship between Levez and Mrs. Dannenberg is genuine.” “However, if the string of that fire crossbow were made from tutui plant fibers, I would have made the greatest discovery in paleobotany this century.” “Hey, Kumajirō—in 1753 near Bering Island, the last species of sea cow was slaughtered.” “But that arctic plant had already gone extinct even before that.” “After all, that crossbow’s string was made of utterly ordinary hemp.” “Hahaha! I turned that elephant-like massive cylinder into a cone.” “In other words—by making Levez the new coordinate—I intend to attempt the final unraveling of this perplexing case.”

“Ah, have you gone mad? Are you using Levez as live bait to draw out Dr. Faust?” Even the typically composed prosecutor was so astonished he nearly lunged forward—whereupon Hōsui answered with a faintly cruel smile. “Ah, the guardian deity of the moral world—Prosecutor Shikura! But to tell the truth, what I fear most about Levez is by no means Dr. Faust’s claws. Actually, it’s the psychology behind that man’s suicide. In the end, Levez came out with these words: ‘If you pass judgment with my blood, someday you’ll hear it from the root of that tongue.’ It seemed exactly like a tragic historical drama that Levez would perform—a grand spectacle worthy of that character actor’s climactic scene. However, while it is sorrowful, it is by no means tragic. Because that very line appears in Shakespeare’s dramatic poem *The Rape of Lucrece*—in the scene where Lucretia, the beauty of Rome, suffers disgrace at Tarquinius’s hands and resolves to take her own life,” Hōsui replied, his complexion momentarily betraying a flicker of trepidation. Yet from beneath that hesitation, he raised his eyebrows and declared resolutely:

“But Prosecutor Shikura, within that confrontation lies a crisis the culprit cannot possibly evade.” “In truth, what I wrestled with wasn’t Levez.” “It was Dr. Faust himself.” “To be frank, I still know the location of the final pentagram curse—the Kobold slip—that hasn’t yet surfaced in this case.” “What? The Kobold slip⁉” Both Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō recoiled as if struck by lightning. Yet etched between Hōsui’s brows lay a certainty too absolute for mere speculation. What machinations had allowed his tormented psyche to assail that phantom’s bastion so ruthlessly? Amidst the thickening tension, Hōsui drained his chilled tea and commenced speaking—a psychological dissection so audacious it bordered on heresy.

“By the way, I appropriated Galton’s hypothesis to analyze Levez’s mental imagery. “This refers to a phenomenon described in that psychologist’s masterwork—*Inquiry into Human Faculty*—where individuals of exceptional imagination experience synesthetic responses to words and numbers, projecting related schematics into their minds as concrete visual forms. For instance, mentioning numbers might conjure a clock face... Yet in Levez’s speech, something even more intense emerged. “Prosecutor Shikura, that man lamented the outcome of his romantic pursuit of Nobuko thus: ‘A celestial rainbow is a parabola; a dewdrop’s rainbow a hyperbola—but unless it becomes an ellipse, Nobuko shall never fly into my embrace.’” Yet during this speech, faint movements flickered in Levez’s eyes—each time he uttered a geometric term, his gaze traced invisible diagrams midair as though drafting equations. There I discerned a breath-stopping revelation within this pantomimic psychological display. “Because connecting parabola and hyperbola into an ellipse yields KO. “That is, the first two letters of Kobold—K and O. “So I promptly implanted a suggestive trigger, attempting to elicit ‘bold’—the remaining letters after removing KO from Kobold.” Then Levez called the trident arrow “Bohr.” “Next, while mocking me by claiming the arrow was fired from the rear vegetable garden, he incessantly stressed the word ‘turnip’—Rübe. “Thus, Prosecutor Shikura, I chanced upon a grotesque specter floating in Levez’s conscious mind. “Ah, though I am no Sterling. “Mental imagery forms a collective entity with free mobility—a most perceptive axiom. “For within that single utterance lay a concept buried deep in Levez’s psyche, now split into crystalline clarity. “Mark this: After projecting KO and numerical forms, Levez labeled the trident arrow ‘Bohr,’ betraying his awareness of Kobold. “Moreover, his use of ‘turnip’ concealed vital significance. “This stemmed from a secret in Levez’s mind—one inevitably linked to Kobold’s guidance. “Now attempt combining the trident arrow and turnip. “Then—the lattice-bottomed desk—”

Ah, am I losing my mind? "Actually, that desk resides in Nobuko’s chamber, you understand."

The Kobold slip—now the entire case hinged upon this single point. If Hōsui’s deduction held true, that vivacious young woman would have to be equated with Dr. Faust. For the three of them, how interminable must the corridor to Nobuko’s room have felt? Yet when Hōsui reached the ancient clock chamber’s threshold, he abruptly halted as if seized by some realization. Then entrusting Nobuko’s room investigation to plainclothes officers, he commanded that Madam Oshikane Tsutako be summoned.

“Don’t be absurd. Unless there’s a cipher in the clock face that locked up Madam Tsutako, that’s another matter entirely,” Inspector Kumajirō retorted gruffly, his tone dripping with dissent. “But interrogating that woman can wait.” “No—I must examine that rotating harp clock,” Hōsui countered sharply. “The truth is, there’s an uncanny fixation haunting me.” He raised his chin defiantly. “It’s driving me to the brink of madness.” His declaration left both men momentarily speechless. Hōsui’s nerves—delicate as radio filaments—bloomed into petals of deduction at the slightest provocation. Thus, though his methods seemed chaotic at surface glance, they often revealed vital connective threads when scrutinized—or else cast startling new illumination upon the case’s shadowed path.

There, supporting herself against the wall, Madam Tsutako appeared. She—who had been renowned during the mid-Taisho period, particularly for roles in symbolist tragedies like Maeterlinck’s—even having passed forty by a year or two, still bore the richness of her sensibilities in her celadon-hued eye sockets and the porcelain-like luster enveloping her skin, evoking the spectral visage of Mélisande from her stage performances. Moreover, it went without saying that her spiritual life with her husband, Dr. Oshikane, had imbued her with profound resignation. However, Hōsui showed not the slightest mercy toward this elegant lady from the very outset, adopting a severe attitude.

“By the way, I must apologize for broaching such matters so bluntly from the very outset—it’s of course inexcusably rude. However, borrowing the words of those in this mansion, we must refer to you as a puppeteer. However, regarding that puppet and its strings—at the outset of the case, they were present in Thérèse’s automaton. And thus, the source of that evil began to repeat itself in an endless cycle of rebirth. Therefore, Madam, I have no need to question you about the circumstances of that time and hear yet another ghostly fatalism from you.”

At the outset, having heard words she had not anticipated in the slightest, Tsutako’s slender, pallid body suddenly seemed to stiffen, and she swallowed a gulp of saliva with an audible sound. Hōsui continued his eerie pursuit without respite. “Of course, I already know that you called your husband, Dr. Oshikane, around six o’clock that evening—and that immediately afterward, in a most bizarre turn of events, you vanished from your room.”

“Then what do you wish to ask?” “In this ancient clock chamber, I was made unconscious and imprisoned.” “Moreover, isn’t it said that Mr. Tagō turned this door’s dial around eight-twenty that night?” Tsutako retorted, her face tensing faintly with anger as she countered him defiantly. Hōsui then pushed off from the iron-barred door and, while staring fixedly at her face, declared something that seemed positively deranged.

“No, my concern was never outside this door—it lay within, you see.” “Madam, you—the doll clock with a rotating harp at the center—” “Moreover, you must be aware that the child doll’s right hand serves as Saint Xavier’s reliquary and strikes the bell when chiming the hour.” “However, when Saint Xavier’s right hand was swung down at nine o’clock that night, this iron door opened simultaneously without any human hand, did it not?”

II. Light, Color, and Sound—When They Faded into Darkness

Ah, Saint Xavier’s hand! That it had opened this door—locked with dual keys—.... In truth, was this towering edifice what Hōsui’s uncanny perceptive nerves had ceaselessly emitted with such subtlety to construct? However, both Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō turned numb-faced and could not easily muster words. This was because—even if this were indeed Hōsui’s divine skill—it was a hypothesis so close to madness that they could not possibly accept it at face value. No, rather, it verged on insanity. When Tsutako heard that, she began to collapse as if struck by vertigo and barely supported herself against the iron-barred door. Her face turned deathly pale, and she averted her eyes, gasping as if on the verge of collapse. Hōsui wore a triumphant smile of satisfaction,

“Therefore, Madam, that night you were fated to be entangled with threads or strings in a most peculiar manner.” “However, when it comes to the method, it remains as unchanging as a year and a day…” “Well, anyway, I think I’ll test out what I’ve been considering.” Then, borrowing the key to the iron case covering the symbol chart and dial from Shinsai, he first opened the iron case, then aligned the dial to the right, left, and right again—whereupon the door opened. When they did so, on the back of the door appeared a compass-style mechanical device with its reverse side exposed. To this, Hōsui wound a thread around the decorative protrusions surrounding the dial on the front side and secured one end.

“By the way, this compass-style mechanism’s particularities constituted the most crucial element in your scheme.” “You see, if one traces the character alignments in the reverse direction used for locking—three operations will release the latch.” “Conversely, performing it backward would cause the latch hook to enter the bolt hole.” “In essence, the starting point for opening becomes the closing’s endpoint—and vice versa.” “Thus, execution proves remarkably simple—provided there exists a means to precisely record those clockwise-counterclockwise rotations and apply inverse force to the dial…” “Under such conditions, theory dictates even a latched bolt would disengage.” “Naturally, from within—the iron case’s key becomes irrelevant.” “And that recording cylinder? None other than the rotating harp itself.”

Hōsui pulled the thread toward the doll clock, opened the double doors, and detached the rotating cylinder—which produced tones—from the hook connected to the timekeeping device. Then, he tied one end of the thread to one of the countless spines embedded in the cylinder, pulled it tautly, and only then addressed the prosecutor.

“Prosecutor Shikura， kindly rotate the dial from the outside and close the door according to the symbol chart.”

As the dial rotated under Prosecutor Shikura’s hand, the cylinder of the rotating harp began to turn. And at the point where it shifted from rightward to leftward rotation, the reversal caught on another spine—thus magnificently recording the three operations. When that concluded, Hōsui reconnected the cylinder’s hook to the timekeeping device as before. That occurred approximately twenty seconds before eight o'clock. The rotating cylinder connected to the mechanical assembly began to turn in the opposite direction with a creaking sound from its spring. At that moment, as they held their breath and watched intently, clear astonishment appeared in the eyes of the group. For as it rotated, the dial began to alternate vividly between leftward and rightward turns. As this happened, the spring in the mechanical assembly emitted a languid creak, and simultaneously, the child doll atop the tower raised its right hand. With a clang of the bell’s striker, at that very moment from the direction of the door, something distinct mingled with the ticking seconds. Ah, once again the door had been opened. The group collectively exhaled their held breaths, but Kumajirō licked his lips and approached Hōsui’s side.

“What a strange man you are.” But Hōsui ignored this entirely and turned toward Tsutako, whose face already bore the pallor of resignation. “Now, Madam—the genesis of this scheme lay in the telephone call you made to the Doctor.” “However, what strongly suggested this to me was the fact that you had been subjected to such inexplicable insulation measures despite actually having ingested chloral hydrate.” “If someone hadn’t wrapped you tightly in blankets like a mummy, you would likely have frozen to death within hours.” “Administered an anesthetic yet held no intent to kill—.” “Those unresolved contradictions only deepened my apprehension.” “Now then, Madam—after opening this door that night, where did you go next? Shall I venture a guess?” “Just what was inside that lead oxide jar in the medicine room?” “What kept the color of that fading drug so vivid…”

“But...”

Tsutako had composed herself completely and spoke in a calm, weighty voice. "When I arrived, the door to the medicine room was already open." "Moreover, there remained traces suggesting someone had previously tampered with the chloral hydrate." "There’s likely no need to mention this now, but inside that lead oxide jar had been hidden two grams of radium stored within a container." "Having heard about this beforehand from my uncle, I had to make a grave resolution to save Dr. Oshikane’s hospital management." "And for about a month now, I remained in this mansion without leaving—" "Ah, during that time, I was subjected to gazes of every conceivable nature." "Yet I endured even that and was constantly seeking an opportunity to act." "Therefore, everything I attempted in this room was naturally foolish defensive measures." "I had intended to create a single fictitious culprit should the radium’s disappearance be noticed." "Please, Mr. Hōsui—that radium—you must retrieve it... Since Dr. Oshikane already took it back earlier." "But on this one point alone, I must assert." "It is true I stole it, but I absolutely have no connection to the murder that occurred alongside my crime."

After hearing Madam Tsutako’s confession, Hōsui fell into silent contemplation for a time, but ultimately merely ordered her to remain at the mansion a while longer before sending her back unchanged. Then, when Kumajirō displayed a dissatisfied demeanor, Hōsui quietly said: “Indeed, that woman Tsutako is plagued by an exceedingly ill-timed coincidence.” “But beyond the Dannenberg case, that woman’s face hasn’t surfaced anywhere else.” “However, Inspector Kumajirō—to speak candidly—I suspect there may be far graver doubts surrounding that single telephone call.” “In any case, have someone urgently investigate Kuga Chinako’s background and Dr. Oshikane.”

Just then came word from plainclothes officers confirming Hōsui’s prediction—indeed, the Kobold cipher slip had been discovered in a drawer of the lattice-bottomed desk in Nobuko’s room. Thereupon, Hōsui and his companions resolved to return to the previous chamber where they had brought Nobuko. Upon opening the door, they heard muffled sobs. Nobuko sat with her face buried in her hands against the desk, shoulders trembling violently. From behind her, Kumajirō spat venomous words.

“Your name had been removed from the register of the dead for a mere four hours.” “But this time, there’s no rainbow—and you won’t be dancing your way out of this.” “No,” Nobuko snapped, whipping her face around, her features drenched in oily sweat. “That slip was stuffed into the drawer without my knowing.” “I only told Mr. Levez about it.” “So it must have been him who informed you.”

“No—a man like Levez possesses a chivalrous spirit rare in this day and age,” Hōsui said quietly while peering suspiciously at his interlocutor’s face. “However, I must tell you the truth. Ms. Nobuko—who on earth wrote that slip?” “I-I don’t know,” Nobuko said, turning a gaze pleading for rescue toward Hōsui’s face. But at that moment, her sweating grew increasingly severe—her tongue twisted unnaturally—and she became unable to even pronounce words correctly. At this—culprit Nobuko’s predicament—something involuntarily brought a smile to Inspector Kumajirō’s lips. Yet Hōsui maintained an attitude of utter composure. For some time he poured his gaze upon Nobuko’s forehead, scrutinizing the rope-like vessels pulsing at her temples. But when he suddenly scooped up sweat from her forehead with his finger, his eyebrows shot up sharply—

"This is bad. Antidote! Now!" he exclaimed, uttering words utterly unexpected in this situation. In the face of this sudden reversal—with Kumajirō and the others utterly bewildered and in complete disarray—he drove them to hurriedly carry Nobuko’s body out in panic. Hōsui released his arms, which had been folded for a moment, and looked at the prosecutor. "Judging by that sweating, it’s likely pilocarpine poisoning." But on his face, a vivid hue of terror had spread. "In any case, that woman has no reason to know we discovered the Kobold slip, so she certainly didn’t ingest it to commit suicide." "No—she was forced to swallow it," he continued. "Moreover, they never intended to kill her. They must have aimed to direct that dazed state against our psychology and bring a third misfortune upon Nobuko." "Now, Prosecutor Shikura—you can’t declare something illogical without even realizing it forms a syllogism’s premise." Hōsui’s voice grew urgent. "So Nobuko and pilocarpine—that serves as the premise." "First," he pressed on, "there must be a method allowing them to learn our secret discussions’ content without piercing walls or seeing through floors." A shudder crossed his features. "Ah—isn’t this truly horrifying? The conversation we held in this room earlier has already been laid bare to Dr. Faust."

In truth, the culprit in this case may indeed possess an inexplicable power that forces illusions into reality. Kumajirō drew a breath as if he could no longer endure it,

“However, I think we can be grateful for today’s Nobuko.” “In truth, while my subordinates were searching Nobuko’s room earlier, that woman was having tea in Krivov’s room.” “However, the individuals present at that gathering were all people who couldn’t cleanly extricate themselves from the pentagram of motives.” “Well, Hōsui—starting with Hatatarō.” “And then Levez, Serena…” “Even that bandage-headed Krivov had sat up in her bed at the time, they say,” Kumajirō spat—a statement that left none present unaffected. For through this, the culprit’s scope became sharply defined, the previous tangled confusion appearing to coalesce into unity. At that moment, the prosecutor made an impromptu proposal.

“Now then—I believe this may be our only opportunity.” “In other words, we must clarify the route by which the criminal obtained the pilocarpine.” “If Tsutako is the one, it could well be said she obtained it through Dr. Oshikane—” “However, if it were someone else, I believe we can only imagine the source to be none other than this mansion’s drug storage room.” “So Hōsui, I’m no Hobbes, but if we investigate the drug storage room again, we might just uncover the criminal’s battle-ready state.”

At the prosecutor’s proposal, the investigation of the drug storage room commenced once more. However, while there was a jar of pilocarpine there, nowhere could one find any apparent signs of tampering. Therefore, though a reduction in quantity went without saying, more than anything, it appeared never to have been used from the very beginning, as the entire thing was covered with a thick layer of dust. And it lay buried deep within the medicine shelf. Hōsui briefly showed a look of disappointment, but something suddenly made him discard his cigarette and exclaim. “Ah, right, Prosecutor Shikura—your signature was so vivid that I was dazzled by it and carelessly overlooked even trivial matters.” “The whereabouts of the pilocarpine aren’t necessarily confined solely to this drug storage room.” “Naturally, that component exists within jaborandi leaves.” “Now then, let’s head to the greenhouse.” “Perhaps we might uncover who’s been frequenting there recently…”

The greenhouse that Hōsui had set out for was located behind the back garden’s vegetable plot, with an animal shed and aviary lined up alongside it. When they opened the door, a stifling wave of warm air assaulted them—a heat-ripened mélange of pollens’ fragrances mingling into an indescribably alluring stench that strangely provoked sensuality, clogging their nostrils. At the entrance stood two prehistoric-looking resin ferns. Passing beneath their large drooping fronds and stepping onto the hardened soil, they faced a mass of tropical foliage ahead—sap-swollen bluish-black leaves, heavy and densely interwoven, their shadows dappled here and there with carmine and wisteria-purple mottling. However, before long, within the light appeared a leaf of unfamiliar shape slightly resembling knotweed, which Hōsui declared to be jaborandi. However, the investigation’s results indeed confirmed his claim—on the stem remained about six scars where leaves appeared to have been plucked recently. Then, Hōsui narrowed his brow, and rapidly, waves of dread surged across his face.

“Now, Prosecutor Shikura—six minus one equals five, right? “The remaining five have lethal efficacy, you understand. “But in Nobuko’s present condition, all six leaves weren’t required. “That is to say—a single leaf containing roughly 0.01 grams could induce that degree of perspiration and speech impairment. “Which means the culprit must still hold those five leaves— “In those remnants...I sense the killer’s combative disposition.”

“Ah, what a terrifying fiend,” Kumajirō said, blinking nervously, his voice tinged with a tremble. “I never imagined poison could be used in such an insidious way. Why, if it weren’t for that cold-blooded Dr. Faust, who else could devise such a cruel and brutal diversionary scheme?”

The prosecutor turned to his side and asked the gardener who had guided their party. “Has anyone entered or exited this greenhouse recently?” “N-no one has… for the past month or so…” The old man stammered, his eyes wide, but failed to provide an answer that satisfied the prosecutor.

Then Hōsui pressed on in an eerily insistent voice.

“Hey—tell the truth now. The color arrangement of those wisteria orchids in the hall—that’s certainly not your craftsmanship, is it?”

This expert question instantly elicited a startling effect. It was as if the elderly gardener had become the bowstring itself—Hōsui’s single pluck unwittingly made him blurt out the truth.

“However, as a mere servant, I must beg you to fully consider my position,” he said with pleading eyes, first laying a preface that seemed to beg for mercy before timidly uttering two names. “The first was on the afternoon of the day that terrible incident occurred, when Young Master Hatatarō made a rare appearance.” “Then, yesterday, Mrs. Serena… She is quite fond of these wild-blooming orchids.” “But as for these jaborandi leaves, I hadn’t noticed them at all until you pointed them out.”

On the branches of the dwarf jaborandi tree, two flowers bloomed. In other words, they now had to imagine even Hatatarō and Mrs. Serena—who had been under the least suspicion—clad in Dr. Faust’s black Taoist robes, adding two new figures to that blood-drenched procession. Thus, the second day of the case saw mysteries erupting in succession—each more grotesquely aberrant than the last—marking what was likely the zenith of tangled chaos throughout the entire investigation. Nor did it end there: with every person involved now regarded as a suspect, the convergence of suspicions stretched endlessly toward no resolution, leaving them all helplessly tossed about by the culprit’s labyrinthine intellect.

Two days later—on the very day of Kuroshikan’s annual public concert—Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō reconvened their meeting in anticipation of Hōsui’s findings after two days of scrutiny. The gathering took place in the antiquated old district courthouse building, where the clock had already passed three. Yet that day, Hōsui radiated a fearsome vitality. His face bore a faint flush so pronounced it seemed he might have reached some conclusion, the ruddiness trembling with kinetic energy. After pressing his lips into a thin line, Hōsui began.

“Now then—I shall enumerate each phenomenon and proceed to classify them systematically.” He picked up two plaster casts on the table. “First, these shoe prints... Of course, this requires no tedious explanation—the smaller pair here are pure rubber gardening boots.” “These were originally Ekisuke’s regular footwear, departing from the horticultural shed and moving between the dry plate fragments.” “However, observing their walking lines—the stride is remarkably narrow relative to their size, tracing a zigzag pattern throughout.” “Moreover, the footprints themselves contain anomalies beyond our initial assumptions.” “Consider this—how could shoes fitting a dwarf like Ekisuke display inconsistent widths with each imprint?” “Furthermore, comparing toe impressions to central sections reveals slight disproportions in balance.” “Add to this concentrated pressure marks on the heels suggesting forceful application...” “The other overshoes begin at the main building’s side entrance, arcing along the central projection before likewise traversing between plate fragments.” “Their stride appears slightly abbreviated relative to shoe dimensions—though their path remains orderly.” “The true enigma lies in their physical contours.” “Toes, heels and edges sink deeply inward—displaying a varus curvature.” “These indentations gradually shallow toward the center.” Given their placement flanking plate fragments, their purpose seemed self-evident—no further elaboration required. Timing had been confirmed post-rainfall after 11:30 PM—overshoe prints overlapping gardening boots at one point clarified their sequence of arrival. Yet even confronted with these paradoxes, our conclusions remained unshaken. A practical mind like Kumajirō’s must have noticed—forensic analysis suggested Levez’s overshoes implied a wearer more colossal than himself, while the gardening boots’ owner would require Lilliputian proportions surpassing even Ekisuke’s dwarfish stature. Such anatomical impossibilities defied mortal reality—a truth needing no elaboration. This could only be stratagem—footprint concealment demanding diabolical ingenuity.

“Therefore, as a matter of procedure, I must first determine which of these two corresponds to Ekisuke—the man who claimed to have gone to the backyard around that time that night.” In the increasingly charged air, Hōsui’s analytical nerves throbbed intensely as he applied his blade-like scrutiny to every angle of the shoe print enigma. “But when you uncover the truth,” he declared, “it reveals itself as a diabolical jest—isn’t that astonishing? The one who wore Levez’s overshoes—meant for a giant—was ironically a diminutive figure not half his stature.” He tapped the plaster cast. “As for these Swiftian gardening boots”—his finger traced Gulliver’s Travels-sized prints—“their wearer likely stands no taller than average.” Leaning forward with forensic intensity, he concluded: “So here’s my deduction—I first assigned Ekisuke to the overshoes. What say you?” His gaze sharpened on Kumajirō. “Inspector—that man must have worn armor clogs from the corridor first before forcing Levez’s overshoes over them.”

“An astute observation!” “Exactly—Ekisuke is an accomplice in the Dannenberg case.” “The purpose of that act was undoubtedly—needless to say—the exchange of the poisoned orange.” “That—such a clear sequence of combined actions—” “It’s your convoluted thinking that’s been obstructing us until this very moment,” Inspector Kumajirō declared haughtily, smirking smugly as his own theory finally aligned with Hōsui’s deduction. However, Hōsui snorted derisively, as if rebuffing the remark.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would that Dr. Faust need such a petty demon? This is precisely the underhanded tactic of a fiend. Let us suppose there existed one utterly ruthless individual within the family—not only was this person the object of dread throughout Black Death Mansion, but let us further assume they were indeed Ekisuke’s killer. However, Ekisuke had been accompanying Mrs. Dannenberg that night. That single fact inevitably becomes an inescapable preconception—a first principle from which we cannot deviate.” “Therefore, even if Ekisuke had been cunningly guided to that location with the dry plate fragments by this individual and was subsequently killed the next day, he would naturally be perceived as an accomplice.” “Thus we must conclude that suspicion for the mastermind falls not upon that lone figure, but rather within Ekisuke’s own circle of intimates.” “Then consider the gardening boots—Mrs. Krivov’s presence, which should have vanished entirely, has resurfaced within them.” “Ah—it’s that Krivov.” “The crux lies in the feet of that Caucasian Jew.” “By the way, Inspector Kumajirō—are you acquainted with the term ‘Baban’skii pain point’?” “It refers to a pressure point manifesting on the heel—a symptom commonly observed in early-stage tabes dorsalis patients like Mrs. Krivov.” “Moreover, applying sustained pressure there would likely induce pain so excruciating as to render walking unbearable…”

Yet when one considered that statement alongside the armory tragedy, it could only be believed as an act of madness.

Inspector Kumajirō widened his eyes in surprise, but Prosecutor Shikura restrained that reaction,

“Of course, it must be accidental—but only if our livers aren’t functioning abnormally. “Indeed, those gardening boots should have had their emphasis in the heel area, though. “Anyway, Hōsui, let’s have you shift the topic from these fairy tales to other matters.”

“You may say that, but that Dr. Faust has discovered a new technique not even found in Abel’s *Criminal Morphology*,” Hōsui retorted with a sardonic smile. “What if someone were to wear those gardening boots upside down? Of course, this scenario is only possible because those are pure rubber boots. However, the method isn’t merely about inserting one’s toes into the heels. You don’t fully insert your heel into the shoe print but keep it slightly lifted while walking and press your toes firmly against the boot’s heel part. When you do this, the leather under your heel naturally folds double, creating a shape as if propped up by a support. Therefore, the force applied to the heel of the boot would not directly fall upon the toes but would instead be exerted slightly below that area. Indeed, the shape that appears is as if a diminutive figure with small feet had worn large boots. Moreover, since it contracts elastically like a slackened spring in an irregular manner, the force applied must differ each time.” Therefore, slight differences inevitably appeared in each and every shoe print. “Thus, by wearing the left shoe on the right foot and the right shoe on the left foot, the outbound path becomes the return path and the return path becomes the outbound path—everything becomes inverted. The evidence lies in examining which foot is dominant in two instances: when rotating at the location of the dry plate and when stepping over the dead grass. Then, wouldn’t this discrepancy become clearly calculable? And thus, Prosecutor Shikura,” he concluded sharply, “it becomes clear why Mrs. Krivov had no choice but to employ this stratagem—it was not merely about leaving those disguised footprints. Above all, it lay in protecting her heel—the most vulnerable point—and thereby erasing her presence from the footprints. And the secret behind those actions lay in those dry plate fragments—that is the conclusion I wish to draw.”

Inspector Kumajirō let the tobacco fall from his lips and stared at Hōsui in astonishment. After a moment, he exhaled softly. "I see... But Dr. Faust's true identity must reside with Krivov in the armory—there's no other possibility. If you can't prove that, I demand you abandon these theatrical wanderings of yours."

Upon hearing this, Hōsui grabbed the confiscated fire crossbow and slammed its end forcefully onto the desk. Then, unexpectedly, white powder spilled out from within the string. Hōsui began to speak with the dumbfounded duo in his peripheral vision. “As expected, the criminal did not deceive us. This burned ramie powder—in other words, that ‘O fire spirit, burn!’—is precisely it, you see. Ramie—when soaked in a solution of thorium and cerium—becomes material for gas mantles; its fibers, though strong and resilient, are prone to change under even slight heat. In truth, the criminal had twisted two strands of those fibers into a gourd shape and concealed them within the string.” “Now, consider a mechanical problem children often perform unconsciously,” he continued. “Fundamentally, even if one shortens a bowstring and releases it instantaneously, it typically produces the same effect as drawing it fully and firing.” “In other words,” Hōsui pressed on, “the criminal used two strands of ramie—each shorter than the bowstring’s length and of differing lengths—and employed the shortest one to contract the string to its required length. Of course,” he added with a sardonic edge, “even visually speaking, if one were to tighten the twists to their utmost limit, there would be absolutely no suspicious traces left—or so one would think.” His voice dropped lower as he concluded: “And then... there was something the criminal had lured from that window.”

“But with the fire spirit… that rainbow…!” Prosecutor Shikura exclaimed, as if dazzled.

“Hmm, regarding that fire spirit… Leblanc once employed a technique of channeling sunlight through a water jug.” “However, that method was already detailed in Rittelhaus’s *On Accidental Crimes*.” “But in this case, the equivalent of that jug existed in the bubbles of the window glass.” “To elaborate—within that double-hung window, sunlight converged at the upper part of the inner pane before concentrating on the carved ornament—you recall it, that tin-plated chalice shape—on the outer window frame.” “Consequently, a focal point formed near the string, inevitably generating heat on the stone wall.” “Even if the string remained intact, the ramie fibers—far more susceptible—would disintegrate first.” “Yet herein lay the criminal’s masterstroke.” “Specifically, they used two ramie strands of differing lengths, twisted into a gourd shape within the string, with their intersection positioned at the string’s lowest point—near the bow’s end.” “Thus, when the focal point initially fell slightly below this intersection, the shorter ramie strand—slightly shorter than the string—was severed.” “This slackened the string, causing the recoil to detach the twist from the nail. The crossbow then pulled away from the wall, necessarily creating an angle.” “As the sun moved and the focal point shifted upward, the final strand—adjusted to match the string’s length—was cut.” “The arrow fired, and from the recoil, the crossbow fell to the floor.” “Naturally, upon impact, the handle likely shifted from its firing position—but crucially, it wasn’t triggered by the handle itself, and not a trace of degraded ramie powder escaped the string.” “Ah, Krivov—that Caucasian Jew had clearly studied Ada Green’s precedents.” “Initially, I suspect she aimed merely to strike the settee.” “Yet through this accident, she birthed that aerial spectacle.”

It was truly Hōsui’s moment to shine.

However, there remained one point of doubt regarding this—a doubt the prosecutor immediately seized upon.

“I must admit, your theory is intoxicating.” “Moreover, it has been empirically proven in reality.” “However, even with that alone, the legal implications against Krivov remain insufficient.” “In short, the problem lies in the position of the window required for that double reflection.” “In other words, the issue must lie in the moral sentiment of either Krivov or Nobuko—isn’t that right?” “Then… was it during Nobuko’s performance that those ghostly overtones were generated…?” “In fact, Prosecutor Shikura, during that time, there was someone who climbed the iron ladder leading from the bell tower to the spire.” “And by tampering with the zodiac rose window midway, they sealed that crack in the harp-shaped glass,” Hōsui declared with a severe expression, once again catching the two off guard. Ah, had the greatest mystery of the Kuroshikan Incident—the enigma of those overtones—finally been unraveled? Hōsui continued. “However, when considering that method, it amounts to nothing more than a single projective observation.” “In other words, there is a single circular hole above the bell tower, which becomes a large cylinder above it, with zodiac rose windows at both its left and right ends.” “All one needs to do is apply the theory of that cylinder even to an organ pipe.” “Because when one end of a pipe that’s open at both ends is closed, a note one octave higher is produced there.” “But before that, the criminal had also appeared in the bell tower corridor.” “And they attached a scrap of paper depicting a wind spirit—then secretly closed the central door among the three.” “Well then, Prosecutor Shikura—are you aware of Lord Rayleigh’s words? He spoke of an acoustic world in this universe where no living being can dwell—”

“What?! An acoustic world where no living being can dwell⁉” Prosecutor Shikura exclaimed, his eyes widening. “That’s right,” Hōsui responded. “It was truly a scene of utmost desolation.” His voice took on an ominous, pressing quality as he continued, “I speak of the bell mechanism’s distinctive resonant world.” “This naturally raises the question—why was it necessary to close the central door?” “Because the area surrounding that door forms an elliptical wall surface,” he explained, “possessing acoustic properties analogous to a concave mirror.” “In other words, contrary to what we call the dead point, it concentrates the bell mechanism’s characteristic resonance into a single focal—” “To rephrase,” Hōsui interjected, “that wall surface occupied the precise focal position relative to Nobuko’s ear as she sat before the keyboard.” “Furthermore,” he pressed on, “the cause behind Nobuko’s collapse and the peculiarities of the swivel chair lay not only in that intense resonance but also within her inner ear itself.” “In fact,” he concluded, “the earlier testimony left nothing unexplained regarding this matter.”

“That’s no joke! That woman claims to remember falling to the right.” When Inspector Kumajirō interjected, “But Nobuko’s posture at the time showed traces of rotating to the left,” Hōsui calmly lit his cigarette before casting a smile at his challenger. “However, Inspector Kumajirō, in Hegar’s compendium of analogous cases—Hegar being a German criminal psychiatrist and staff physician at Baden’s National Hospital—there is a report of hysteric patients who collided at a four-way intersection yet asserted the opposite side as the point of impact.” “In fact, it’s exactly as you say—the sensations experienced during a seizure manifest on the opposite side.” “However, in this case, the problem is by no means limited to just that one.” “Another point—during a seizure, auditory perception becomes biased to one ear—there was also that symptom.” “And because in Nobuko’s case it was her right ear, that ferocious groaning—which erupted the moment the door was locked—” “It was something so overwhelming that it barely registered as sound—a force surpassing the limits of human organs—which then struck her inner ear with a searing, inflammatory impact.” “In other words, it was a case of artificially inducing labyrinthine concussion—and of course, the resulting loss of whole-body equilibrium goes without saying.” “Therefore, in accordance with Helmholtz’s law—where heat and the right ear shift to the left—her entire body instantly began to twist.” “And on the chair whose rotation had reached its limit, she continued tilting to the left and collapsed.” However, even if that were understood, it would by no means identify the culprit; rather, it only served to clarify Nobuko’s innocence. No, they had merely elucidated the final blow that felled Nobuko—yet the criminal’s visage remained concealed within the enigma of the bell mechanism chamber. And so, the problem shifted away from the room’s interior, moving this time to the corridor and iron ladder. “However, if Nobuko isn’t the culprit, then all circumstances in the armory room converge on Krivov—though I suppose that’s only natural.”

As soon as these analyzed elements coalesced into a single point, they cast Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō into a vortex of momentary bewilderment. However, during this time, Inspector Kumajirō had been silently smoking his tobacco as if trying to maintain his composure, but after a while, he said sorrowfully.

"But Hōsui, Krivov’s alibi remains unassailable in every scenario." "No matter what, unless someone discovers a tunnel like in Mason’s *The House of Arrows*, I feel this case will ultimately remain unsolvable." “Well then, Inspector Kumajirō,” Hōsui nodded in satisfaction as he retrieved from his coat pocket the now-familiar scrap of paper inscribed with Digsby’s cryptic text. Then, as something abnormal began to be anticipated there, a half-fearful flush crept up onto their faces.

Hōsui said calmly.

“To tell the truth, it had been thought that Digsby’s secret cipher system was fully revealed at the back of that grand staircase—merely indicating the intentions of confession and malediction within this cryptic text.” “However, when one considered its deliberate disregard for grammar and absence of articles, a sinister essence of the secret cipher system seemed to emanate from within.” “Now, Inspector Kumajirō, from one cipher emerges another—what we call a nested cipher—and precisely these two texts exemplify it.” “Now, setting aside tedious accounts of my struggles, let me delve into the decryption method.” “Fundamentally, a cipher may appear as two cryptic passages utterly unrelated at first glance—yet it forms by compiling only the initial letters of the first short text.” “Moreover, the key had been concealed within another passage reminiscent of the Book of Genesis.” “However, I too initially made a flawed observation.” “That was ‘qlikjyikkkjubi,’ totaling fourteen characters.” “Then, if we combine two characters into one, a seven-letter word forms. Since there are two consecutive ‘ik’ sequences, this seems to suggest pivotal characters like ‘e’ or ‘s’.” “Yet, believing a single word would likely lack meaning, I soon discarded that notion.”

“Therefore, next I attempted to divide the entire passage into two or three sections,” “And I was able to succeed in that effortlessly.” “Because there’s a section in the center where three k’s are aligned in a row.” “If you split between the second and third ones, you can naturally divide it into two sections without any awkwardness.” “Now, Inspector Kumajirō, there’s no conceivable logic in having three identical letters in a row. Moreover, words beginning with duplicated letters are only a handful to begin with.” “And then, after that…”

To each phrase of the mysterious text Digsby had left behind, Hōsui began assigning numbers as follows. Jehovah God was hermaphroditic. In the beginning, He undertook by Himself and begat twins. The first to emerge from the womb was female and named Eve; the next was male and named Adam. However, when Adam faced the sun, the area above his navel followed the light and cast a shadow behind, while below his navel, it opposed the light and cast a shadow forward. God, greatly astonished upon seeing this wonder, and though He feared Adam and deigned to make him His own child, made Eve—who was no different from ordinary people—a maidservant. Then, when He engaged with Eve, she conceived, bore a daughter, and died. God sent down that daughter to the mortal world and deigned to make her the mother of humankind.

“First, in this manner, I divided this text into seven sections.” “And from each section, I attempted to extract the clues to the cipher solution hidden within.” “Now, regarding the first section in the text—I interpreted this phrase as signifying the creation of humankind.” “In other words, it is the genesis of all things—to draw an analogy, like the ‘i’ of Iroha or the ‘A’ of the ABCs.” “Then the second section—this is the most crucial point.” “Now, Inspector Kumajirō—‘He begat twins’—what could that signify?” “When speaking of twins, anyone would naturally imagine literal interpretations like tt, ff, or æ.” “However, in this case, there was an extremely symbolic meaning—it referred to the form of twins within the womb.” “Now, Inspector Kumajirō, I presume you’re not unaware of what position twins assume within the mother’s womb.” “One is always positioned upside down, with one’s head aligned with the other’s feet—in other words, arranged in perfect head-to-tail symmetry, just like the figures on playing cards.” “Now, pair p and d and observe.” “Within the alphabet, doesn’t the form of twins emerge? And if we apply the interpretation of the first section to that, naturally either p or d must occupy the position of a in the alphabet.” “However, even that alone would merely create separate ciphers—and though the same could be said for q and b—the solution would end up looking like cuneiform or Persian script.”

After taking a breath and pouring the remaining cold tea down his throat with evident distaste, Hōsui resumed his explanation in one continuous stream. "Now, once that is done and we reach the third section onward, it is there that d and p are first distinguished." "In other words, since the firstborn was female and the next was male—the d with its head facing downward corresponds to Eve while p corresponds to Adam." "Then I interpret the term 'child' in the fifth section and 'mother' in the seventh section as consonants or vowels respectively." "In other words, up to this point **d** would correspond to a vowel and **p** to a consonant as their respective initial letters—but through Sections Four and Six I further corrected this."

(From the author:— As the explanations of ciphers appearing in subsequent lines may seem somewhat excessively intricate, we have rendered Western-style typefaces belonging to cipher categories in Gothic font to facilitate distinguishing between them. Kindly bear this in mind.)

“Now, in the fourth section, there is the character for ‘navel,’ which we interpret as signifying the center of the whole. In other words, by assigning p to b—the leading consonant—and aligning bcdf... beneath pqrs..., the b corresponding to n logically falls precisely at the midpoint between p and the final n, regardless of which end you count from. This is what the character for ‘navel’ symbolically represents. Therefore, since the first half of the fourth section states that ‘the shadow above the navel falls naturally behind,’ the sequence from b to n—that is, from p to b—remains unchanged without issue. However, when we reach the latter half, a change occurs.”

The interpretation of the passage stating that "the shadow below the navel projects forward against the incoming sunlight" was undoubtedly a suggestion that shadows—that is, the ABC order—should this time be reversed. Therefore, if one proceeded with the first half’s sequence as it was, the order naturally became such that p following n corresponded to c following b. However, by inverting it, we assigned p to n—which should have corresponded to the final z. Therefore, instead of aligning **pqrs** with **cdfg**..., they were matched with **nmlk**... in an inverted sequence starting from the tail end. Thus, in the end, the consonant cipher ended up arranged as follows.

bcdfghjklmnpqrstvwxyz pqrstvwxyzbnmlkjhgfde “Then, in the sixth section that follows,” Hōsui continued, “the passage stating ‘Eve conceived and bore a daughter’ holds significance. This indicates that Eve—represented by d—belongs to the subsequent era; counting a-b-c-d naturally suggests e following d. When I incorporated this with my interpretation of the seventh section—where e corresponds to a as the head vowel—replacing **aeiou** with **eioua** ultimately formed the vowel cipher.” He concluded with clinical precision: “Thus did that entire cryptographic system resolve into Crestless Stone.” “So you’ve completed your decryption?” Kumajirō pressed.

“What, Crestless Stone⁉” Prosecutor Shikura inadvertently let out a frantic scream. “Exactly—the so-called Crestless Stone.” “Didn’t you notice, when you saw the room where Mrs. Dannenberg was killed, that the fireplace there was built with stones engraved with crests?” Hōsui said, returning the tobacco he had started to take out back into its case. At that moment, it seemed as though everything came to a standstill.

At last, a corner of the Kuroshikan Incident’s cyclical logic had been shattered, and within the chain’s loop, Hōsui’s hand had seized Dr. Faust’s heart—Ah, curtain fall.

It was exactly six o'clock, and outside, a smoke-like rain had begun to fall.

That night at Kuroshikan, an annual public concert was being held, and according to yearly custom, around twenty people connected with music were to be invited. The venue was the usual chapel, where grand decorative lights—specially installed for that night alone—blazed from the ceiling so intensely that the mystical atmosphere one might have remembered from faintly swaying lamps, through which sutra chants or pipe organ notes seemed ready to resonate, now appeared to have vanished to some unknowable realm.

However, beneath that fan-shaped dome, the medieval aesthetic sensibilities had not been lost. The musicians all wore wigs and were dressed in vivid scarlet costumes that jolted the eyes awake. When Hōsui and his party arrived, the second piece had already begun—a B-flat minor composition by Mrs. Krivov for harp and string trio, which had just entered its second movement. Nobuko played the harp, and though her skill—somewhat inferior to the other three: Krivov, Serena, and Hatatarō—might have been considered a flaw, there was no time to scrutinize it. For the scene before their eyes—where colors and sounds swirled like a bewitching illusion—held something that, with just a single glance, was sufficient to completely overwhelm the senses. Talleyrand-style wigs with short sideburns paired with court musicians’ attire modeled after the Schwetzingen fashion. In this vivid and sonorous tableau, the long-ago musical banquet of George I upon the Thames—the night of Handel’s *Water Music* premiere—was so vividly evoked that it became a vision so intense it seemed ready to burst into flames, yet even amidst its dazzlement, it possessed an irrepressible power to compel quiet reminiscence.

Hōsui and his party sat down in the last row, poised to await the concert’s end amidst rapture and serenity. Moreover, not only they but likely everyone believed that under these blazing decorative lights, not even a Dr. Faust could find the slightest opportunity to take advantage. However, as the harp’s glissando faded like bubbles in a dream and Hatatarō’s first violin began to play the thematic melody... that was when the truly unforeseen event occurred. Suddenly, as a tremendous commotion surged up from among the audience, the stage began an eerie blackout.

Suddenly, the decorative lights went out, plunging colors, light, and sound into utter darkness. At that precise moment, an uncanny groan erupted from the stage—its source impossible to discern. A thunderous crash shook the floorboards, followed by what seemed to be a hurled string instrument clattering down the stairs, its strings and body shrieking discordantly. The clamor quivered through the black void before dying away completely, leaving not a single voice to break the hall's suffocating silence—a silence thick with unutterable dread.

Groans and the crash of a fall— Undoubtedly, among the four performers, one must have been struck down. While thinking this, Hōsui sat motionless—suppressing his pounding heart and straining his ears—when a faint sound reached him from nearby in the room, like water murmuring over shallows. At that very instant, darkness tore open at one corner of the stage as a match flame descended the stairs toward the audience seats. For just a moment, blood seemed to freeze and something suffocating began to permeate the air. Yet even as that spectral light fluttered restlessly across the floorboards, Hōsui's gaze remained fixed upward, sharply focused on the space above the platform. There in the darkness lingered an illusion—a human silhouette seized and held fast by his unblinking stare.

Regardless of who the victim might be, the perpetrator was none other than Olga Krivov. Moreover, that sardonic, sneering monstrosity had calmly staged an entire gruesome spectacle while gazing down at Hōsui below. No doubt this time too contradictions would envelop everything like a pincushion, compelling that dreadful admiration to repeat itself fourfold. Yet as the grenade's distance narrowed, Hōsui had drawn close enough to hear his opponent's pulse and detect a bark-like neutral odor. But at that critical moment—the spent ember sagging like a bow—the match fell from fingertips. A shriek pierced the darkness; before registering it as Nobuko's voice, Hōsui's gaze had already locked onto one spot on the floor.

Look—there lay a faintly glowing band like sulfur. From around its lower edge, a few fireballs crackled and coiled inward, appearing only to vanish again. But the moment his eyes fixed on it, all of Hōsui’s expressions froze. The world beyond that single astonishing vision—the high-backed seats, the fan-shaped vaults interlacing overhead—began to sway like a storm-lashed forest before plunging together into the abyssal darkness yawning at his feet. Indeed, in its dying instant, the light fell upon a white cloth revealed through a gap in the slanting wig—unmistakably the brow bandage still stemming the armory’s tragedy. Ah—Olga Krivov.

Once again, it was Hōsui’s retreat.

The one struck down was none other than his prime suspect—Mrs. Krivov.

Part Eight: The Collapse of the Furuyatsuki Clan

I. Dr. Faust’s Thumbprint

Thus, once again, this madness game of sugoroku had returned Hōsui’s token to its original starting point. However, the moment of anguish passed, and calm returned to Hōsui. Yet something had come creeping up to his ear, one after another—for what crept near was that water-like sound which had earlier been dismissed as an auditory hallucination. Perhaps due to passing through prismatic spaces or compounded by windowpane vibrations, the roar now redoubled its former intensity as if to shake the very axis of the earth. Then that thunderous clamor began agitating the air of the ghastly death chamber. This could be none other than a reenactment of the medieval German legend—the "Witches' Sabbath." Beyond several piled stones and a window lay a waterfall somewhere within the mansion’s depths. Whether connected to the crime at hand mattered little; even attributing it to Dr. Faust’s penchant for grandiose decoration strained credulity—such an absurdity could scarcely coexist with reality. Ah, that roaring cascade—this garish, sinister dream defied all laws and reason, did it not epitomize grotesque madness? But Hōsui shook off the deranging sensation and shouted—"The switch! Lights!"

Then, as if snapping back to their senses at the voice, the audience all at once rushed toward the entrance. However, Inspector Kumajirō, who had secured the door simultaneously with the onset of darkness, halted this surge, and for some time, the chaos made it impossible to activate the light switch. To prevent scattering the audience’s attention beforehand, they had turned off all the lights downstairs, leaving only a single corridor wall lamp glowing dimly and plunging the hall and surrounding rooms into complete darkness. Amidst the clamorous uproar, Hōsui began to sink into silent contemplation as he pursued the motes of color drifting through the darkness. Then, Prosecutor Shikura approached and informed them that Mrs. Krivov had been stabbed through the heart from behind and was already deceased.

However, during that time, Hōsui’s deductions grew and finally became as taut as a piano wire stretched to its limit. And in the face of the unfolding catastrophe, he began organizing the phenomena that had manifested from the very beginning, attempting to draw a single tangent line across its curve. First: Levez wasn’t among the performers. (However, his figure was not found among the audience either.) Then came the fact that this room had been sealed simultaneously with the darkness—in other words, that the circumstances before and after the incident were identical. However, when it came to the matter of the lights going out—the most crucial juncture—specifically, who had turned the final switch? By chance, Hōsui recognized a glimmer of light. This was because, just before the decorative lights went out, Tsutako appeared at the entrance door, passed by the switch located near the door, and then occupied a front-row seat close to that side’s edge.

In fact, it was here that Hōsui discovered his first coordinate. It was one of the stratagems listed in Abels’ *Criminal Morphology*—a method that utilized ice prisms to induce an electrical short in a covered switch. In other words, by inserting the tip of an ice prism fragment into the insulator connected to the handle, twisting the handle caused the contact plates to barely touch, turning on the light. However, immediately after that, colliding one’s arm with the handle was the cunning trick; doing so would cause the tip of the ice to break off, and the body of the prism fragment would touch one of the heated contact plates. Therefore, if the vapor from the melted ice formed droplets on the ceramic base, an electrical short would naturally have to occur there. Moreover, the melted ice would vanish without a trace. In other words, if Tsutako had carried out that cunning trick while passing by the light switch, the lights would naturally have gone out around the time she took her seat. And through that interval of time, a corner of the shadows could easily be concealed.

Oshikane Tsutako—that great actress of the mid-Taisho period—had not appeared in any other links of the chain, yet she had already imprinted an indelible shadow upon the Dannenberg incident by pushing open the iron door of the ancient clock chamber from within on the very first night of the case. Moreover, among all those involved in the incident, she possessed the most compelling motive and was indeed occupying a front-row seat. As he arranged these factors one after another, Hōsui felt something like a bloody arrow-scream rising within his very breath. However, when he had a servant prepare a candlestick and approached the light switch, he made an unexpected discovery there—a single haori cord loop, something that only Tsutako dressed in traditional Japanese clothing would possess, had fallen on the floor directly beneath it.

“Let me return this haori cord loop to you for now, Mrs. Tsutako.” “However, Mrs. Tsutako—you should know who turned this light switch—” Hōsui began swiftly, summoning Tsutako first. However, Tsutako showed not the slightest perturbation; rather, with a sneer, she retorted: “If you would return it, I shall accept it.” “But Mr. Hōsui—through this, I’ve finally come to understand the existence of a god who rewards good deeds with evil.” “The reason being—the moment a groan escaped from the darkness—the thought of this switch flashed through my mind.” “If the handle could be turned without human hands—there must be some sinister mechanism hidden within this cover.” “And if that were true—I thought the culprit would surely come to retrieve that device under cover of darkness.” “As I considered this—a resolve I had never before imagined welled up within me—and so I swiftly left my seat and came here.” “Then—covering this switch with my back—I remained standing in this spot until your arrival just now.” “Therefore—Mr. Hōsui—were I Decius—from Brutus’ faction in the Bard’s *Julius Caesar*—I suppose in this case—I would say this to the haori cord loop:” “The unicorn is deceived by the tree—the bear by the mirror—the elephant by the hole—”

Therefore, they decided to first inspect the interior of the switch. However, contrary to expectations, not only were there no signs of an electrical short within it, but even when turning the handle to restore current flow, the grand decorative lights remained silent in the darkness. Indeed, this became the genesis of tangled confusion until finally the problem shifted away from the chapel. Hōsui too had no choice but to first apologize for his hasty judgment before asking Tsutako about the main switch's location. Tsutako collected herself and answered candidly.

“That room lies just beyond a single corridor from the chapel and was formerly a mortuary—a chamber in medieval noble castles where corpses were placed before the anointing ceremony.” “However, it has now been renovated into a storage room for miscellaneous items.”

However, as they crossed the great hall and proceeded down the corridor, the roar of flowing water grew ever closer. And when they came near the mortuary they were heading for, from beyond the door bearing St. Patrick’s Cross and the Great Suffering of Jesus, the sound of water surged up with a thunderous roar. At the same time, while faintly pushing aside their shoes, something cold crept in through the cord hole.

“Ah, water!” Inspector Kumajirō let out an involuntary, shrill cry, but as he leapt back, he staggered and had to brace himself with one hand against the washstand on his left. However, with that, everything became clear. That is, they had fully opened the taps of the three washstands lined up on the wall opposite the door, allowing the water overflowing from them to follow its natural slope. And, guiding it through a gap in the plaster at the door’s threshold, they must have directed that water flow to cascade into the mortuary. They decided to open the door, but the lock was engaged, and though they pushed and shoved, it didn’t budge an inch. Inspector Kumajirō slammed his body against the door with terrifying force, but only the faint creak of wood echoed through the air as his entire frame was repelled like a ball. Then, Kumajirō regained his footing and shouted in a tone bordering on madness.

“Axe! Whether this door was made by Robbia or carved by Hidari Jingorō himself, I’ll smash it open no matter what!”

And so the axe was brought forth, and the first strike was delivered near the handle—aimed at the panel. Wooden fragments shattered and flew off, and the old-fashioned latch mechanism sagged down along with its wooden twist. Then, unexpectedly, from the wedge-shaped gap in the broken opening, billowing steam akin to that of a hot spring gushed forth.

In that instant, the entire group's faces turned dumbfounded, and they stood frozen in place. No matter what secret scheme might lie concealed behind that cascade of hot water, it was not an issue in this case. While forcing fantasy into reality may have been Dr. Faust's cruel pleasure, the spectacle before their eyes possessed a sorcerous allure that intoxicated them to the depths of their souls. When the door was opened, they were met with a wall of white and heat so intense it seemed to scorch their eyeballs. However, at that moment, Inspector Kumajirō twisted the flasher switch beside the door, noticed the electric heater below it, and pulled out its plug. As the mist and intense heat gradually dissipated, the room's full appearance finally became clear.

In other words, this section corresponded to what is called the antechamber in a mortuary, with the area beyond the door at the end serving as the central chamber—referred to in ecclesiastical jest as the "spirit dance chamber." From the drain hole gaping in the corner, water that had pooled there was flowing out. At the boundary with the central chamber stood an unadorned stone door of solemn severity, its adjacent wall bearing a large key hung with an antique banner ornament. The door was unlocked and opened with a subterranean rumble peculiar to stone portals. Yet despite the antechamber’s blistering heat, a cavernous chill now emanated from the darkness ahead as it yawned open. When the door had been fully swung wide, Hōsui received from within that dimness a visual shock violent enough to nearly blind him and send him staggering. A milky radiance lashed at his eyes, freezing him rigid where he stood as he stared fixedly at the floor ahead. This was no effect of the darkly oppressive atmosphere inherent to this monastery-style architecture.

The entire floor surface was covered with countless thin, short curves squirming and intertwining like hundreds of thousands of pale earthworms released upon it. Piled atop layers of dust that overwhelmed the floor's gray hue, they emitted a white light of crystalline clarity—yet one that could also appear strangely nauseating, almost mucous-like depending on how one looked. When stared at, only the portion within one's field of vision would coalesce into solemn emblem-like patterns, floating mid-air before suddenly leaping at the eyes. The light seemed reminiscent of Saint Jerome’s vision as beheld by Gottschalk—a German monk who led a vanguard before the First Crusade. Moreover, these countless lines covered nearly the entire floor of the room—undoubtedly fine grooves formed by mist upon accumulated dust—yet curiously, no traces resembling them remained on the ceiling or surrounding walls. Not only that, but when viewed obliquely from the side, countless undulations resembling lunar mountain ranges or desert sand dunes stretched endlessly across its surface. Those were undoubtedly subtle engravings of natural forces, utterly unattainable even by the most masterful craftsman.

The room was enclosed by limestone masonry, filled with a solemn atmosphere that evoked both hardship and monastic discipline. Beyond the stone door at the far end lay the mortuary chamber, its surface engraved with the full text of Saint Patrick’s famous hymn—"Against the Heathens’ Wicked Laws, and Against the Spells of Women, Blacksmiths, and Druid Sorcerers." Yet no footprints marked the floor, suggesting even Dr. Sanzō’s funeral had omitted the ancient mortuary rites. When they confirmed no one had ventured beyond the antechamber, all lingering questions dissolved at this threshold. While easily surmising that water had been diverted from washstands to collapse the staircase, the subsequent ignition of the heater defied all rational explanation. The switch box’s lid gaped open on the wall, its contact blade handle drooping listlessly downward. Prosecutor Shikura gripped the handle to restore power while eyeing the drain hole at his feet, then delivered his analysis.

“In other words, using water from the washstand to send it cascading down the stairs was meant to erase the footprints left on the dust-covered floor.” “This means our fundamental quandary lies in one person performing dual roles—turning off this room’s main switch, then locking the door and exiting before stabbing Krivov.” “But no matter how I consider it, I can’t bring myself to believe Levez played such a demonic part.” “The answer must inevitably reside in that crestless stone you discovered.”

“Your deduction is indeed astute,” Hōsui nodded frankly at first, then blinked uneasily. “However, my present concern lies rather in Levez’s psychological drama. Moreover, it’s possible the whereabouts of this room’s key might unexpectedly relate to Levez, whom we failed to notice…” He vigorously puffed his tobacco, sending sharp crackles through the air, before turning to Kumajirō. “In any case, we cannot assume the culprit will keep carrying it forever. Our first task is to search for the key’s whereabouts.” “Then find Levez and bring him here.”

Finally feeling as though released from a nightmare, when they returned to the old chapel, the brilliant light of decorative lamps once again scattered there. Beneath it, the audience had formed map-like clusters here and there, huddling together, but the three on the podium remained unmoved from their original positions—quivering and struggling like cornered beasts under the weight of anxiety and sorrow. Mrs. Krivov’s corpse lay before the stairs, nearly forming a T-shape. It lay face down with both arms flung forward, while on the left side of its back protruded an ominous rod-like shaft resembling a spear tip. The corpse’s face showed almost no trace of fear. Moreover, it was strangely greasy—perhaps from edema during the death struggle—and the normally harsh, angular features appeared considerably softened in death. The face had lost nearly all expression. Yet what at first glance seemed death’s tranquil shadow was simultaneously inferred to be a vacant state induced by sudden shock. The coagulated blood covering the corpse’s back hollow had formed a large pool shaped like a pointing hand—made eerier still by how those fingertips were directed toward the podium’s right side. But among these sights, what struck most powerfully was a contrast unbefitting the murder case. At the spearhead’s base, seeping fat glowed golden, and combined with the court musician’s crimson coat, it rendered the entire ghastly scene extraordinarily vivid.

Hōsui meticulously examined the weapon's handle but found no fingerprints. At the base of the handle was cast the crest of the House of Montferrat; when drawn out, it revealed itself to be a flame-shaped spearhead split into two prongs. Yet nature's cruel jest during the crime had obscured its most vital aspect. Between the podium and that position lay not a single drop of blood. The cause was plain enough—the blade had not been immediately withdrawn, resulting in scant spurting at the moment of impact. This severed the very chain needed to reconstruct the crime. Thus they lost all means to determine two crucial points: where on the podium Mrs. Krivov had been stabbed, and what path her body took in falling. After completing his examination of the corpse, Hōsui cleared the room of spectators and climbed the stairs. Then Nobuko screamed—a sound like one tormented by nightmares.

“That Dr. Faust still hasn’t tormented me enough.” “It wasn’t merely that someone first placed the Kobold slip in my desk.” “Today, that demon has chosen me again to be added to the three human sacrifices!” she cried, gripping the frame of the harp tightly with both hands behind her back and shaking it violently. “Now, Mr. Hōsui—you want to know where on the podium Mrs. Krivov was stabbed, and from which side she tumbled down—don’t you?” “But I truly don’t know anything at all.” “I was merely gripping the harp’s frame and holding my breath rigidly, so—oh, Mr. Hatatarō, Mrs. Serena—you both must surely know that.”

“No, if I were Guidion—the great mystic monk said to have manifested in Druidic cults and mastered night vision and invisibility—I might have known,” Mrs. Serena replied, her trembling voice laced with faint sarcasm. Then, adding to her words, Hatatarō spoke to Hōsui.

“That’s precisely the case. Unfortunately, we don’t possess spatial senses as precise as those of insects or the blind. And besides, our costumes were all identical. Until Miss Nobuko struck a match and illuminated her face, we couldn’t even discern who had been killed—such was the chaos… No, rather I should say I heard nothing and felt no vibrations.” Hatatarō’s declaration carried a perceptible shift in tone as he sensed the investigation turning against Hōsui’s team. An oppressive arrogance now swirled in his eyes. “By the way, Mr. Hōsui—who exactly turned off the main switch? With such a bravura quick-change act, just who is this demon playing both roles?”

“What, you say ‘demon’⁉ No—this Kuroshikan mansion itself is a roofed altar. Isn’t life itself already demonic?” Hōsui seized the final words while glaring at the precocious youth before him with unnerving intensity. “Actually, Mr. Hatatarō, I refer to old-school investigative methods—that is, those that rely on humans’ fragile senses and memories—as ‘holy relics’ and hold them in contempt.” “However, in today’s incident, having taken Saint Patrick of the mortuary as my guardian deity, I was forced to battle Druid sorcerers.” “Are you aware of the historical fact that when that eminent monk of Ireland performed a procession resembling the deisil method—(note)—it drove out the Druid sorcerers and sanctified the land of Armagh?”

(Note) A custom of the Welsh demonic cult Druids, where they circled the altar in accordance with the sun’s course—that is, moving from left to right.

“The deisil method⁉ And why would you…” Her face clouded timidly, but Mrs. Serena pressed on despite her hesitation. “However, might not the wise Saint Patrick have borrowed that left-to-right procession method as a means of evangelism?”

“Indeed, in today’s incident, it was a speaking symbol—that very thing.” “However, transferring sorcery’s manifestation to another amounts to the sorcerer-monk destroying himself,” Hōsui declared, his lips twisting into a malicious half-smile as he delivered these words veiled in sinister implication. Ah, the speaking symbol— What could it mean? This unresolved mist-like phenomenon stiffened muscles unnaturally and froze the air with dread. Then Mrs. Serena’s eyes flickered abnormally—first at Hōsui, then shooting Nobuko a venomous glare—before her gaze fixed motionless on a spot below the podium. There lay an ineffably ominous mark. The symbol Hōsui had described—one moving from right to left—now manifested clearly on Mrs. Krivov’s back. For the blood pool shaped like a pointing hand had its fingertips oriented toward the podium’s right side—precisely where Nobuko stood. Moreover—though perhaps imagination played tricks—the form vaguely resembled a harp. All present felt an unspeakable terror rooting them to that sigil. Soon Nobuko buried her face in the harp, shoulders quaking with ragged breaths until Hōsui abruptly ended the inquiry. When the trio departed, Kumajirō turned fever-bright eyes toward Hōsui,

“Well, well—this one’s quite the Buddha too.” “How about that? The elaborateness of this setup—” he muttered, inadvertently letting out a sigh tinged with bewilderment at the traces of Dr. Faust’s sorcerous engraving.

The prosecutor let out an unbearable breath and said to Hōsui.

“So, in the end, are you interpreting this coincidence as *Ecce Homo*—?” “Not at all—leave it in its natural state, for it is fluid,” Hōsui dismissed offhandedly, his abrupt shift in theory startling the prosecutor. “Naturally, if that’s the case, those three will become my marionettes in full.” “Now watch—those three deep-sea fish will undoubtedly come to vomit out their own guts before me.” Then Hōsui informed them of how splendid the psychological drama he intended to stage would be. “Now, if I were to explain the true meaning behind my use of the deisil method as a metaphor—it lay in the relationship between Hatatarō and the violin.” “Did you not notice?” “Despite being left-handed, that man is currently holding the bow in his right hand and the violin in his left, isn’t he?” “In short, that left-to-right motion is the very essence of the deisil method.” “But Shikura, surely this constant can’t possibly be a mere accidental coincidence.”

At that moment, Mrs. Krivov’s corpse was carried out, and in its place entered a single plainclothes officer. Though the mansion-wide investigation had naturally concluded, the report it delivered contained revelations that made one involuntarily widen their eyes in shock—for not only was there mention of the mortuary key, but it was also reported that Levez had vanished simultaneously with the conclusion of the first musical piece and the onset of intermission. Furthermore, it was discovered that at the precise moment of the tragedy’s occurrence, Shinsai had been bedridden by illness while Chinako had been continuing her manuscript in the library. Yet upon hearing this, an ominous shadow began drifting across Hōsui’s countenance. No longer able to remain still, he began pacing the room with agitated steps before halting abruptly to stand motionless for several seconds, deep in thought. Then—as an abnormal gleam flashed in his eyes—he kicked the floor with a resounding thud, his triumphant cheer rising through the echoing reverberation.

“Yeah, that’s it. Levez’s disappearance has bestowed glory upon me. Our current suffering lies precisely in our failure to comprehend that man’s monstrous jest. Hey, Inspector Kumajirō—that key is inside the mortuary. The corridor door was locked from the inside. And then, Levez vanished into the inner corpse chamber.” “Wh-what are you saying?! Have you gone mad⁉” Kumajirō exclaimed in shock, glaring at Hōsui.

True enough, on the floor of the mortuary’s middle chamber, there was not a single smudge resembling a footprint. Moreover, the window of the corpse chamber in the side corridor had been firmly locked from the inside. However, Hōsui had finally given Levez a flying carpet.

“So what was the purpose of creating that steam cascade in the anteroom? And fashioning that beautiful phantasmagoric realm on the middle chamber’s floor to erase the footprints upon it—what end did that serve?” he retorted in a fanatical tone, finally slamming the edge of the podium with a thunderous crack. And through that spectral emblem pattern, his elucidation had at last forged Levez’s cage.

“By the way, Inspector Kumajirō, you often blow perfect smoke rings from your tobacco, but you’d call that a rhythmic motion of gases, wouldn’t you? However, when there’s a temperature and pressure differential between both ends, the same phenomenon appears in objects like lamp chimneys with central bulges or keyholes. Then there’s another crucial factor in this case—the type of stone composing the middle chamber’s walls. That’s limestone, commonly used in basilica-style monastery architecture, which would naturally have weathered over many years. Therefore, we can safely assume the accumulated dust contains water-soluble limestone components. Thus, Levez first created a steam cascade in the anteroom to generate mist. As time passed, a temperature and pressure gradient gradually formed between the front and back chambers, creating precisely the right conditions. Then ring-shaped mist emitted from the keyhole ascended toward the middle chamber’s ceiling.”

“Ah, so it’s the steam rings and limestone particles then?” Prosecutor Shikura nodded as if he understood, though his body continued to tremble faintly.

“Exactly, Shikura.” “And then, when that steam touches the accumulated dust on the ceiling, first and foremost, it begins to permeate into the limestone components within.” “Therefore, since a hollow space would naturally form inside, it would ultimately become unable to support itself and collapse.” “In other words, it goes without saying that this substance covered the footprints on the floor.” “Moreover, after that magical ring had absorbed a large amount of limestone and shattered, it culminated in creating that resplendent mystery.” “However, Shikura, I have discovered a phenomenon quite similar to this within historical records as well.” “For example, the miracle of the fish symbol in Elbogen (note)…”

(Note) In 1327—when the Karlovy Vary hot springs remained undiscovered—a miracle manifested on the outskirts of Elbogen, ten miles from that site. On the floor of a ruined chapel appeared the Greek character for "fish," a symbol associated with Christianity. This phenomenon was likely caused by intermittent steam vents from mineral spring veins. "No, we'll discuss that another time," the prosecutor interjected, cutting short Hōsui's protracted lecture delivered with the air of a pseudo-historian. Yet his gaze remained skeptical as he continued scrutinizing the detective. "Phenomenologically speaking, your explanation suffices. A fragment of the crestless stone may indeed have surfaced in the inner corpse chamber. But even if this resolves the matter of dual roles..." He grimaced, fingers tightening around his lapels. "I still cannot fathom why Levez would conceal himself needlessly. That man likely grew so intoxicated by his own artifice that he lost all sense of identity."

“Oh ho, Shikura—have you forgotten Tsutako’s old tricks? Then let’s tentatively try not opening the mortuary door. If we do that, that man will surely time our return and slip out through the Seishi Window in the side corridor. And then he’ll slip into the Taiyōkin or some such place, and without a doubt swallow a hypnotic drug. Now then, let’s go. This time, I’ll smash through that Kobussu Kohei’s door panel!” Thus, Hōsui finally sounded his triumphant note and soon stood before the mortuary door in the depths of the middle chamber—engraved with Saint Patrick’s hymn.

For the three of them, it felt as if they had already discovered Levez caged within, yearning to glut themselves on his cruel reaction in full measure. Yet the door—which they had believed must surely be locked from within, requiring even the battering ram from the armory—unexpectedly slid backward beneath Inspector Kumajirō’s pressing palm. The interior was steeped in that damp darkness peculiar to sealed chambers, from which flowed an air turbid beyond measure—unnervingly dust-laden, tickling at their throats. And there, within the flashlight’s circular beam, lo—several fresh boot streaks materialized. In that instant, Levez’s blazing eyes seemed to manifest in the distant gloom, his beast-like labored breath seeming to reach their ears—but this proved an illusion conjured by their own iridescent dust. The footprints vanished into the shadow of the rear hanging curtain, continuing toward the innermost coffin chamber. Yet what made them involuntarily swallow hard was this—within the light cast from the curtain’s hem to every floor corner, only four coffin-stand legs appeared, devoid of any human form. Crestless Stone—Levez had likely already vanished from this chamber. When Inspector Kumajirō tore down the hanging curtain with violent vigor, something suddenly kicked his forehead, sending him sprawling across the floor. Simultaneously came the creak of curtain rods overhead as a hard object flew toward Prosecutor Shikura’s chest. He reflexively clutched it—a shoe. Yet in that moment, Hōsui’s gaze froze upon a single point overhead. Behold—there swayed one bare foot and another halfway shed of its shoe, pendulous as some great dull metronome.

Hōsui’s deduction—which had reeked of cerebral matter—had finally been overturned. Though Levez had been discovered, he had hanged himself using a leather strap from the iron rod of the hanging curtain. Curtain fall—the Kuroshikan Murder Case must have concluded with this anticlimactic scene as its final act. However, even though this conclusion did not satisfy Hōsui in the least, it bewildered him to a surprising degree. Inspector Kumajirō directed his light at the face of the corpse he had undressed to its plainclothes and said,

“Well, well, it seems the Lord Faust incident has come to an end with this.” “It’s hardly a conclusion worthy of applause, but I never would have imagined this Hungarian knight being the culprit.” The coffin platform had already been examined beforehand. Judging from the boot prints remaining there, there could be no doubt that Levez—standing at its edge—had placed both hands on the leather strap, released his feet, and dropped his neck onto the cord. The corpse—which had seemed so reminiscent of a sea creature—was clad in the same court musician’s attire, its chest area slightly soiled with vomit. Moreover, the estimated time of death was approximately one hour prior, roughly coinciding with Krivov’s murder; however, the leather strap had left its imprint over the collar and dug into the nape with brutal force. Of course, every aspect bore unequivocal signs of death by hanging. Furthermore, Levez’s facial expression itself served as proof. His face—now darkened to a dusky purple—had the inner ends of its eyebrows arched upward in a V-shape, its lower eyelids hanging heavily, and the corners of its mouth drawn downward. These characteristics were what is commonly called the *fallen* countenance, exuding an air of despair and anguish that could not be denied. All the while, Prosecutor Shikura had been lifting the collar at the nape with his fingers, intently scrutinizing the area around the hairline at the back of the head. But as he did so, his eyes became eerily fixed.

“I think the gossip about Levez may be overly harsh.” “What do you think, Mr. Hōsui? This ghastly walnut-shaped mark here seems to contradict the form of the ligature marks, does it not?” he said, pointing to a single nodular scar resembling a walnut shell lodged at the hairline.

“Indeed, the ligature marks are formed in an upward direction. If that’s the case, then one or two nodules like these are probably nothing more than trivial matters. However, even in that antiquated von Hoffmann’s *Forensic Medicine Textbook*, there is one such example, isn’t there? It is said that—when the victim crouched to pick up documents fallen on the floor, the perpetrator strangled them from behind with a monocle’s silk cord. Of course, doing so would form the ligature marks diagonally upward, so afterward, the perpetrator hung the corpse by fastening the cord over them. However, a single nodule remained on the nape of the neck, and in the end, it spoke out—or so they say.” After saying this, as he psychologically observed Levez’s suicide, Prosecutor Shikura touched upon the most painful point of this situation.

“And Mr. Hōsui—even if Levez turned off the main switch, slipped through some secret passage unknown to us, and stabbed Mrs. Krivov… why on earth would someone of Dr. Faust of Knittlingen’s stature not take his final bow with a grand gesture? For a criminal who was so flamboyantly theatrical, isn’t everything far too abruptly clean—too anticlimactic—for his final act?” Levez’s utterly incomprehensible suicide psychology had plunged Prosecutor Shikura into complete bewilderment. He looked at Hōsui with a frenzied expression. “Hōsui, even if you trot out your greatest hits—from Stoic hymns to Schopenhauer—I doubt even you could explain this suicide’s singular peculiarity. Because as things stand, the criminal’s current strategic position completely overwhelms us. And on top of that, the conclusion is far too abrupt. Ah, isn’t this a pitiable anticlimax! How can I believe that this man’s imagination could be exhausted by nothing more than a grandiose performance à la Salvini (the quintessential Italian actor known for exaggerated facial performances)? Was it to avoid mistiming his moment… or to die with pride…? No, no—it absolutely cannot be either of those.”

“Perhaps that may be the case,” said Hōsui, tapping his tobacco case lid with an air of cryptic implication—yet his bizarre nod seemed to affirm the prosecutor’s theory at its core. “In that event, you ought to read Piderit’s *Physiognomy and Mimicry*. This anguished expression—what we call the ‘fallen’ appearance—is something found only in suicides.” After speaking, he yanked the hanging curtain forcefully, producing a metallic groan from the iron rod overhead. “Listen, Shikura—that resonance you hear is what made this knot appear suspicious. When Levez’s weight suddenly loaded the rod, it began gaining momentum. The recoil would make the suspended body spin like a top. Naturally, this twists the leather strap tighter and tighter. Once it reaches maximum tension, it starts unraveling in reverse. Essentially, after a dozen rotations, a knot formed at the twist’s extremity—and that’s what compressed Levez’s neck so violently.”

And so, though the phenomena had been fully explained in objective terms, Hōsui couldn’t shake the sense that it all resembled a solitary divination ritual. He remained with shadowed countenance, chain-smoking tobacco as he sank deeper into contemplation.

—Dr. Faust, alias Ottokar Levez, had departed life like smoke. But why was that?

Then, it was decided to perform an autopsy here, but first the key to the anteroom door was discovered in a clothing pocket. However, immediately after—when they removed Levez’s crushed and flattened collar—something beneath it unexpectedly glared back fiercely into the eyes of the three men. At last, Levez’s death had been logically elucidated. Just below the cartilage—around both sides of the trachea—two thumb marks were vividly imprinted. Moreover, a dislocation had occurred in the cervical vertebrae at that exact location, leaving no doubt that Levez’s cause of death was strangulation… and thus it had to be concluded that after this act, the perpetrator had likely hoisted up his body as death drew near moment by moment. It was already clear—the situation had made another vivid about-face. However, there was a striking feature in the right thumb—only there were distinct nail marks deeply impressed. And the area corresponding to the finger pad’s muscle was faintly sunken, appearing as if it were a scar from an incision or perhaps a boil. However, while this naturally dispelled all doubts regarding Levez's suicidal psychology, the discovery of the key conversely led to even deeper questions.

By this point, both denials and affirmations had been sorted out within this situation, and several insurmountable barriers had been proven to exist there. The culprit had likely lured Levez into the anteroom and strangled him, then carried the corpse into the inner mortuary chamber. However, despite the anteroom key being kept in the victim’s clothing pocket, how had the culprit closed that door? Moreover, not only were there no footprints in the mortuary chamber other than Levez’s, but his facial expression—though characteristic of suicides—lacked any trace of emotions such as terror or shock. Why was this? Admittedly, the Saint’s Footprint Window opening onto the side corridor had only its upper section made of transparent glass; however, it was entirely covered in a thick layer of dust, leaving no way to conceive of an escape method from it. Therefore, it was inevitable that all answers had come to rest upon the Crestless Stone——. The prosecutor seized the corpse’s hair and turned its face toward Hōsui. And he condemned the utterly cruel measures that had once been taken against Levez.

“Mr. Hōsui, the responsibility for this situation naturally rests upon your moral sentiments.” “Indeed, through that psychological analysis at the time, you were able to ascertain the location of the Kobold cipher slip.” “Moreover, their affair—this man’s romantic relationship with Mrs. Dannenberg—was nearly consigned to oblivion, yet your clairvoyant insight laid it bare.” “But Levez, cornered by your sophistry, ended up refusing protection in his attempt to prove his innocence.”

To this, even Hōsui could not offer a direct rebuttal. Defeat, discouragement, despair—not only had all hope abandoned him, but a shadow akin to an eternal burden had come to rest in a corner of his heart. Probably that ghost would ceaselessly whisper this to Hōsui: "You made Dr. Faust kill Levez." However, the two thumb marks that had strongly compressed Levez’s trachea were, in this case, a prize that made Kumajirō leap with excitement. And so they immediately set about collecting fingerprints from all family members. At that moment, a plainclothes officer entered, accompanied by a servant. The servant in question was a man named Koga Shōjūrō, who had previously given testimony during the Ekisuke Incident, and this time as well, he claimed to have witnessed Levez’s inexplicable behavior during the intermission.

“About what time was it when you last saw Levez?” Hōsui promptly began by asking. “Yes, I believe it was around eight-ten,” he replied, initially turning his face away as if to avoid looking at the corpse. But once he began speaking, his testimony became succinct and efficient. “Because the first piece had ended and the intermission had begun, Mr. Levez emerged from the chapel.” “At that time, I passed through the hall and walked down the corridor toward this room, and following behind me, Mr. Levez was also proceeding in the same manner.” “However, I ended up passing by this room and turning toward the changing room, but when I suddenly glanced back at that corner, Mr. Levez was standing motionless in front of this room, staring fixedly at me.” “It was as if he were waiting for my figure to vanish.”

According to this testimony, there was not the slightest room for doubting that Levez had entered the room of his own volition. Hōsui proceeded to his next question.

“And then, what were the other three doing at that time?” “As for that, it seems they had each retired to their rooms for the time being.” “And then, about five minutes before the next piece was to begin, the three individuals withdrew together, and Miss Nobuko arrived somewhat later than that, if I recall correctly.”

“Then,” Kumajirō interjected, “does that mean you didn’t pass through this corridor afterward?” “Yes, because the second piece was about to begin shortly. As you are aware, this corridor has no carpeting, so footsteps echo. Therefore, during performances, we are to use the front corridor.” With this—leaving only one of Levez’s inexplicable actions unexplained—Shōjūrō’s testimony concluded. However, at the end, he spoke in a tone of sudden recollection: “Ah, right—the Foreign Affairs Division officer from Headquarters you mentioned seems to have been waiting impatiently in the hall, you see.”

Then, upon exiting the mortuary chamber and proceeding to the hall, they found one of the Foreign Affairs Division officers waiting there with Kumajirō’s subordinate. Naturally, this included a report addressing whether Kuroshikan’s architect—Digsby—was alive or dead. At the Metropolitan Police Department’s request, the Rangoon authorities had likely combed through even archival documents. The return telegram contained a fairly detailed account of the circumstances surrounding Digsby’s fatal plunge. To summarize: At five o’clock in the predawn hours of June 17, 1888, a passenger had thrown himself from the deck of the *Persian Empress*. Though his head had presumably been severed by the propeller, only the torso washed ashore on a beach two miles from the city three hours later. There could be no doubt this corpse was Digsby’s—his clothing, calling cards, and other personal effects confirmed it beyond question.

Next, Inspector Kumajirō’s subordinate brought a report concerning Kuga Chinako’s background. According to it, she was the eldest daughter of Dr. Yagisawa Sessai, a medical doctor, had wed Kuga Jōjirō—a renowned light moss researcher—and had been widowed in June of Taisho 2 (1913). What had guided Chinako into that investigation was none other than the psychological analysis through which Hōsui had once extracted her mental imagery and thereby uncovered Sanzō’s cardiac anomaly. Furthermore, given that Sanzō had not only shared this but had even revealed to her the location of the anti-premature burial device, it naturally suggested something abnormal in their relationship—something transcending the master-servant dynamic. Yet when Hōsui’s gaze caught the maiden name "Yagisawa," his breathing grew erratic and his expression became visibly agitated. Seizing the report without a word, he strode out of the hall and marched straight into the library.

Inside the library stood only a single candlestick with an acanthus-shaped base, its dim light casting a gloomy atmosphere that appeared to be Chinako’s customary environment when writing. Yet she showed no reaction whatsoever as she stared fixedly at Hōsui, who had entered intently. That gaze not only deprived Hōsui of any chance to speak but also instilled a peculiar dread in Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō. At length, she herself began to speak—her tone fragmented yet intimidating.

“Ah, I understand now.” “The reason you came to this room…” “Well, I suppose it must be that.” “One evening, I was by Mrs. Dannenberg’s side, you see.” “And each time a tragedy occurred after that, I never once left this library.” “Well, Mr. Hōsui, I had always thought you would not fail to notice that paradoxical effect someday.”

All the while, Hōsui’s eyes grew brighter with each passing second, their intensity seeming to pierce through the other’s consciousness. He twisted his body around and attempted a faint smile, but it faded halfway. “No, this is absolutely not some saccharine anecdote.” “I came to you thinking this would be our final encounter.” “By the way, Yagisawa-san…” —the moment Hōsui uttered the surname “Yagisawa,” an indescribable agitation swept through Chinako’s entire body. Hōsui pressed further. “It is certain that your father, Dr. Yagisawa, propounded the theory of hereditary criminal predisposition through deformities of the squamous skull and temporal fossa in Meiji 21, correct?” “To which the late Dr. Sanzō raised a rebuttal, did he not?” “Yet suspiciously—just when this year-long dispute seemed to reach its climax—it vanished as if by tacit agreement.” “Therefore, I attempted to chronologically arrange past events at Kuroshikan.” “Then in Meiji 23, did not those four infants arrive after crossing vast seas?” “Tell me, Yagisawa-san—does not your presence in this mansion find its reason in those transitional years?”

“I will tell you everything,” Chinako said, raising her somber eyes. The turmoil in her heart appeared to have completely subsided; the contours of her face, which had sunk into indistinguishable depths, now cast shadows with terrifying sharpness. “My father and Dr. Sanzō discontinued that debate because its conclusion had reached an impasse with the extreme theory of experimental eugenics for cultivating humans.” “If I put it that way, you should understand those four are nothing more than small experimental animals.” “As for their true identities—each had fathers who were immigrants—Jewish, Italian, and others—executed at Elmira Prison in New York.” “Whenever they dissected an executed body and found one with that cranial morphology, they would obtain the child of that condemned man through Warden Blockway.” “And so it finally reached those four of differing nationalities... Thus, whether articles in *The Hartford Evangelist* or embassy records—all were measures Dr. Sanzō took without sparing expense.”

“So, having those four registered in this mansion and inciting disputes over the distribution of movable assets—that too was ultimately nothing more than a scenario devised to reach a conclusion.”

“That is correct.” “I hear his late father also shared that cranial morphology—that must have been present as well—for Dr. Sanzō maintained an almost fanatical obsession with his own theory.” “However, for someone of such aberrant disposition as that gentleman, what we consider conventional thinking holds no relevance.” “Total immersion—that constituted the entirety of his existence. Trivial matters like inheritance, affection, or physical being were but motes of dust within his vast, boundless realm of intellectual consciousness.” “Thus my father and Dr. Sanzō made a pact in their later years, entrusting me to witness its outcome.” “Yet on that occasion, Dr. Sanzō executed an exceedingly sinister stratagem.” “To elaborate regarding Mrs. Krivov—shortly after her arrival in Japan, we received notification that there had been an error in publishing the autopsy findings.” “Thereupon Dr. Sanzō devised a scheme, extracting the four names from *The Biography of Gustavus Adolphus*.” “Specifically, he assigned Mrs. Krivov—who lacked the hereditary traits indicated by that skull—the name of an assassin.” “To the other three, he bestowed names of soldiers from Wallenstein’s army who had fallen to Brahé’s sniper fire.” “Moreover, he purged all authentic biographies of King Gustavus from this library, replacing them with *The Secret Cabinet History of Richelieu*. Yet likely he believed those names would provoke neither family nor investigators.” “Therefore Mr. Hōsui, you must now comprehend the meaning of ‘spirituality’ I once described—that wilderness through which humanity’s seed must inevitably wander from father to child.” “And now that Mrs. Krivov lies slain today, does not Dr. Sanzō’s shadow naturally dissipate from that miasma of suspicion?” “Ah, this case represents the most morally degenerate form among all crimes.” “Within that stagnant water—foul with ditch-stench and darkness—those five individuals gasped and clawed against one another.”

Thus, at the very moment the true identities of the four mysterious musicians were exposed, only one or two unnatural deaths remained within Kuroshikan's hidden currents of the past. Then, upon returning to Mrs. Dannenberg's room—their customary interrogation chamber—they found Hatatarō and Mrs. Serena waiting with four or five figures who appeared connected to the music world. Yet when she saw Hōsui's face, Mrs. Serena began speaking in a commanding tone that clashed with her usual grace.

“We have come to give clear testimony. In truth, we would like you to interrogate Nobuko.” “What? Nobuko Kamiya?!” Hōsui feigned a look of surprise, but across his face spread a triumphant smile he couldn’t possibly conceal. “So, did that person say they would kill you all?” “No—in fact, there exists a barrier that no one can possibly destroy.”

Then, Hatatarō interjected. And still, this abnormally precocious child spoke in a strangely mature, adult-like tone that carried a softness.

“Mr. Hōsui, this barrier you speak of had been psychologically constructed within us until now.” “You are aware that Mrs. Oshikane was positioned at the end of the front row, are you not?” “However, those present here had broken down that barrier.”

“I sensed someone approaching from the direction of the harp immediately after the decorative lights went out,” said the forty-year-old man—presumed to be the critic Shikatsune Mitsuru—as he glanced left and right, his receding hairline prominent, seeking validation from those around him. And he continued. “Well, one might call it a psychic disturbance.” “But more likely, it was the low hum produced by silk rubbing against itself—that’s what I think it was.” “Regardless, the sound steadily intensified.” “And just as it abruptly ceased, that anguished moan resounded from the stage.”

“Indeed, your pen’s edge possesses more than enough potency for poisoning,” Hōsui remarked, nodding with a sarcastic smile. “But are you acquainted with this maxim from Huxley?—‘A conclusion exceeding the evidence cannot be dismissed as mere error—it is rather a crime.’” “Ha ha ha ha! If you can hear even the god of music’s strings, then why not proclaim Ibycus’s death with a rooster’s crow?” “No—I believe it would befit music-loving dolphins to rescue Arion instead.”

“What? Music-loving dolphins?!” one of the seated men shouted indignantly. That man, who was positioned directly below Hatatarō near the left end, was a horn player named Otabara Sueo. “Alright, Arion has already been saved!” “However, given where I was positioned, I couldn’t hear the presence Mr. Shikatsune mentioned.” “However, precisely because I was close to these two people, it would be no exaggeration to say I had a complete grasp of their movements.” “Mr. Hōsui, I too heard an unusual groan.” “That sound ceased at the same moment the moan arose… However, as long as Mr. Hatatarō is left-handed and Mrs. Serena is right-handed, that noise must have been caused by their bowstrings rubbing diagonally against each other.”

At that moment, Mrs. Serena looked at Hōsui with an expression of ironic resignation. "In any case, precisely because the meaning of this contrast is so simple, it must be paradoxically difficult for someone as sardonic as you to assess its significance. However, if you could judge with faculties beyond your own mental inertia, that commoner would surely see memories of Krakau—where the legendary Dr. Faust practiced sorcery—shine bright within her."

After everyone had left, Kumajirō showed a look of disapproval and snapped at Hōsui.

“Honestly, this is utterly absurd. Rather, I think a noble spirit that humbly accepts what’s given would suit you better.” “More importantly, Hōsui—given this testimony now—I want you to recall that equation about the armory you mentioned earlier.” “At that time, you said 2-1=Krivov, didn’t you?” “However, if Krivov—the answer—were to be killed…” “Don’t be ridiculous! How could that commoner’s daughter be the mastermind behind this court conspiracy?” Hōsui snapped back.

“Indeed, that woman Nobuko is an exceedingly peculiar existence; apart from the Dannenberg incident and the bell-ringing device room, she is completely caught in a web of circumstantial evidence.” “However, it’s precisely because of that textbook human sacrifice that Dr. Faust can keep up his cheerful disposition.” “First of all, Nobuko has neither motive nor impulse.” “For example, even the most sadistic criminal must have had some motive that led to eliciting such pathological psychology.” “In fact, even now, those music-loving dolphins are…”

Just as Hōsui was about to touch upon something, the report on the thumbprints he had ordered investigated earlier arrived. However, the result ended in futility, and anything corresponding to it never came to light. Hōsui, his eyes looking weary, pondered for a while; then, suddenly struck by a thought, he ordered the forget-me-not urns lined up on the fireplace mantel in the hall to be brought in. They numbered over twenty in total—some belonging to those who had passed away or departed—but they had been commissioned for all individuals with significant ties to this mansion, meant to eternally halt reminiscence. Their surfaces were coated with a beautifully Spanish-style glaze, yet perhaps due to being amateur handiwork, there was something archaic in their shapes. Hōsui neatly lined them up on the desk and said.

“Perhaps I’m being overly sensitive…” “However, in a place like this mansion—teeming with psychopathological individuals—placing trust in something like fingerprint impressions becomes the fundamental error.” “Because occasionally there are seizures that don’t manifest externally.” “In such cases where rigidity or emaciation occurs, we must avoid falling into grievous error.” “However, inside these urns, there must undoubtedly be thumbprints pressed during moments of calm.” “Inspector Kumajirō, please break these urns here neatly.”

As they broke the urns while cross-checking names on their thread-marked bases, only two remained unbroken. “Claude Digsby”—the urn was shattered, but its thumbprint differed from that of the Welsh Jew. Next came Dr. Sanzō Furuyatsuki... Inspector Kumajirō’s wooden mallet came down lightly, leaving a zigzag crack across the urn’s body. The moment it split open, all three were gripped by something straight out of a nightmare. Just below the rim lay an indisputable thumbprint—identical in form to the one pressed into Levez’s throat. Even Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō seemed robbed of the strength to speak by this shock. As they stood frozen, Kumajirō—as if jolted awake—fumbled to knock ash from his pipe,

“Hōsui, this settles the matter cleanly. There’s no more room for delay. We’re excavating Sanzō’s grave.”

“No, I will defend legitimacy to the end!” Hōsui shouted with uncanny fervor. “If you’re so blinded by paranoia that you believe Sanzō still lives, then by all means host your wretched séance. I’ll find the crestless stone—and battle the murderous demon lurking among you humans.”

Then, as they traced each crest engraved on the fireplace’s stacked stones, they indeed discovered something resembling it within the stones on the right side. And when Hōsui experimentally pressed it, strangely enough, that part began to sink inward, yielding to the pressure of his finger. Then, at the same moment, the tier of stacked stones began to retreat without a sound, and soon, on the floor where they had been, a square of darkness gaped open. The tunnel—this path of darkness imbued with Digsby’s ruthless will to curse—threaded between walls and navigated through gaps between layers. Where would it ultimately lead? Would it lead to the bell-ringing device room, the chapel, or perhaps the mortuary? Or would it split into crossroads branching everywhere…

II. Nobuko, the star of fate in thy breast.

At their feet was a single small staircase from which a lacquer-black darkness peered. The dank air, untouched by outside elements for years, oozed forth with a corpse-like warmth and an indescribably musty stench—a literal miasma of the grave. Hōsui and his two companions promptly lit their flashlights and began descending the stairs with hunched shoulders. There they found a wooden floor about half a tatami mat in size. Upon reaching it, numerous slipper marks—previously invisible due to the lighting—became apparent across the floorboards. Yet among them lay one exceptionally fresh oval-shaped imprint that extended straight toward the stairs; this trace bore no distinguishing features fore or aft, likely due to having been made through silent steps. Thus it proved naturally impossible to determine whether it had descended from above or emerged from the tunnel's depths. At that moment, Kumajirō—who had been illuminating their surroundings—let out a startled cry. Looking up to their right, they saw a wooden Barī mask—depicting a demon from Indian Vishnu avatar legends—hanging with its ghastly hairline exposed, its left eye's pupil protruding rod-like by half an inch. When pressed, the right side conversely lifted upward as the light beam from above narrowed—the stacked stones having returned to their original position. After measuring both the slipper marks and stride intervals, Hōsui stepped into the rectangular strip of darkness that had been carved open ahead. What followed indeed recalled scenes from when Consul Pliny, during Emperor Trajan's reign in ancient Rome, dispatched two female attendants to explore the Callixtus Catacombs.

From the tunnel’s ceiling hung years of accumulated dust in stalactite-like formations; with every breath, fine particles scattered, tickling their throats with an irritating itch. Even without that, the air was far from fresh, making it strangely stifling; had they used pine torches at that moment, it seemed they would not have glowed but instead smoldered and gone out. Moreover, the echoes from throughout the mansion resounded abnormally within this space—at times making them wonder if they had reached a branching path, or sounding like human voices—frequently causing their hearts to race. However, the slipper marks continued to guide them onward without ever disappearing. At their feet, the accumulated dust crumbled as if being trampled through snow, and through it, the cold sensation of oak seeped all the way to the crowns of their heads. Thus, this journey through the tunnel continued for about twenty minutes or more.

The tunnel wound right and left, with some sections sloping, twisting through so many turns it became nearly impossible to keep track, until finally bending left to terminate in a dead end resembling a cupboard. And there, too, the mask of Demon King Barī was discovered. Ah, beyond that single layer of stone wall—where in the mansion could it be? Hōsui pressed one eye of the mask with bated breath. Then, the right door opened, slightly grazing Kumajirō’s shoulder, but the darkness still stretched onward ahead. However, from somewhere, a gentle breeze wafted in, making them realize it was a spacious area.

Hōsui cast a light diagonally high into the space ahead. However, the light merely raced vainly through the darkness, illuminating nothing. Then, stepping forward and directing it overhead, there appeared before them the faces of three men bearing grotesque, anguished visages. Through this, Hōsui came to understand everything. Saint Paul, Martyr Ignatius, Hosius the Elder Confessor of Córdoba... He had counted up to three of the sculpted pillar statues along the wall when his voice suddenly began to tremble,

“It’s the tomb! We’ve finally reached Dr. Sanzō’s tomb!” he shouted with near-delirious intensity.

At the same moment as that voice, Inspector Kumajirō moved forward two or three steps and swept his circular light across the space ahead in a straight line. Then, within it, the forms of several stone coffins flickered into view—it became unmistakably clear this section was indeed Dr. Sanzō’s tomb. The three began breathing in ragged, staccato gasps.

The interpretation of “Kobold, hasten!”—words Levez had once spoken to Hōsui—now teetered on the brink of shifting from illusion to reality. Moreover, the slipper marks continued straight ahead, aimed squarely at Dr. Sanzō’s coffin platform—massive and centrally positioned. On its lid lay a guardian deity—Saint George—crafted from light iron, which had been slightly lifted. At that moment, it likely crossed the minds of the three of them… Sanzō’s coffin platform alone lacked legs, and since it was constructed from stacked marble stones, they were certain Dr. Faust’s body was absent from the casket—and that a new tunnel leading underground had likely been constructed from there.

However, when the lid was lifted and a circular light flashed in—the three instinctively felt a shudder of dread and leaped back. There lay a misshapen skeleton—was there not? The knees that should have been lying still were bent high, both hands floating midair, fingers cruelly contorted as if clawing at something. Moreover, as the three leaped back, it rustled faintly—and to compound the grotesque unease—one or two rib ends broke off with a dry snap, crumbling to ash-like dust. Yet on the left ribs remained traces of a wound, making it unmistakably clear this was indeed Sanzō's remains.

“Dr. Sanzō was indeed dead.” “Then whose fingerprints could those possibly be?” Prosecutor Shikura growled, turning to Inspector Kumajirō. At that moment, a sinister light flashed in Hōsui’s eyes as he pressed his face against Sanzō’s ribs and froze. To their utter astonishment, bizarre characters stood vertically carved into the sternum. PATER! HOMO SUM! “Father—I too am human—” Hōsui translated the Latin inscription aloud, yet more grotesque discoveries continued unabated. Golden particles glittered along the carved characters’ edges, while wedged within a broken tooth’s gap lay what appeared to be a small bird’s skeleton. Hōsui lifted these particles and scrutinized them intently—

“Ah, this must be Dr. Faust’s ritual, I suppose.” “However, Inspector Kumajirō, these characters are carved on a dry plate.” “Father, I too am human—” “Moreover, what appears to be a small bird’s skeleton lodged between the teeth must undoubtedly be the corpse of a mountain sparrow that interfered with the anti-premature burial device.” “This is truly horrifying.” “In short, Dr. Sanzō had indeed revived within his coffin, but at that moment, the culprit wedged a mountain sparrow chick into the mechanism to prevent the electric bell from ringing.”

Even as Hōsui’s voice echoed gloomily, it did not register at all with Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō, who remained utterly transfixed by the horrifying spectacle before them. The figure was clearly that of anguish within the coffin; the conclusion was undoubtedly the burial of a living body. However, from Dr. Faust’s perspective, the sight of Sanzō—revived in his coffin, madly pulling the signal cord to no avail, his strength waning as he clawed at the lid above—must have delivered a cruel, almost sadistic pleasure. Thus, since the culprit’s cold-blooded will is encapsulated in the mountain sparrow’s corpse and the phrase *Father, I too am a man—*, it may not be unreasonable that Kuga Chinako cried out about “the most depraved form of morality.”

It was an undeniable truth that what gripped their hearts with overwhelming force was not the so-called Black Death Hall Murder Case—a history of bloodshed marked by extreme cruelty—but rather a horror tragedy that had already unfolded even earlier, one whose terror was unmistakably evident in the very shapes of the corpses before their eyes. Then they began investigating the slipper marks, which continued from the stairway of Seiketsu Cave up to the overhead doorway—that is, all the way to the coffin niche in the cemetery. However, upon reaching this point, the sequence of events finally became clear: the culprit had entered the tunnel from Mrs. Dannenberg’s room, opened the lid of the coffin niche, and emerged onto the ground of the rear garden. Moreover, there were what appeared to be footprints—half-buried in dust—scattered about, making it unmistakable that some bizarre infiltrator had been present during that unending darkness.

When the investigation concluded, the three hurriedly closed the stone coffin lid and fled from the maddeningly oppressive, ghastly aura. And as they went, Hōsui compiled and organized these discoveries, linking them like chain links.

1. Father, I Too Am Human: An Analysis— Already, this stood as an irrefutable testament speaking volumes. However, given Dr. Sanzō’s fanatical obsession with vindicating his theories—not only naturalizing four foreigners but drafting an irrational will, sketching corpse diagrams, incinerating grimoires to imply criminal methods, and premeditating disruptions to investigations—the question remained: Which of the three had this madness driven? The answer remained shrouded in uncertainty. That said, the solitary word “father” unambiguously pointed to either Hatatarō or Mrs. Serena—whether Hatatarō sought vengeance for inheritance-related atrocities, or Mrs. Serena, propelled by some motive, had discerned Sanzō’s true intent—a truth intimated by the half-leaf corpse diagram that could only be perceived as Hōsui’s fevered hallucination—and if so, then the absolute realm operating within Mrs. Serena’s pride might well have detonated this grotesque cataclysm. Thus, while this declaration indubitably resided in the phrase *I too am human—*, were one to presume it forged, Tsutako Oshikane must then be deduced as the architect of this demented manifesto.

2. Oshikane Tsutako as a Criminal Phenomenon——.

What had already become clear was that the figure moving along the eaves during the Divine Inquisition, the shoe prints from the gardening warehouse where the photographic plates were first retrieved, and the intruder in the pharmacy room—these three individuals—were in fact the same person who had slain Dr. Sanzō and infiltrated Mrs. Dannenberg’s chamber that night. Thus, naturally, the issue became consolidated into the Dannenberg case—to which Oshikane Tsutako, bearing an undeniable darkness and wielding what could be called the motive among motives, made her entrance. Of course, as long as these could not be established as definitive conclusions, such speculations would remain nothing more than mere protrusions in the void.

After returning to the old room and settling into the chair, Hōsui grimly stroked his chin and uttered an astonishing statement.

“The truth is, Dr. Sanzō’s corpse contains two violent declarations of will,” Hōsui stated. “First killed by Digsby’s curse and revived, only for Dr. Faust to deliver the final blow this time.” His voice sharpened like a scalpel. “In short—that’s a double murder.” “What?! A double murder⁉” Inspector Kumajirō recoiled as if physically struck. Hōsui responded by collapsing the grand staircase’s rear section—once, twice, thrice—each structural failure punctuating his revelation until the final collapse laid bare his conclusion.

“Isn’t that right, Inspector Kumajirō? There’s a saying by the famous Langie—a French cryptanalyst—that ‘the ultimate secret cipher lies in the collation of identical characters.’” “So, applying that collation of identical characters to the Crestless Stone, I attempted to eliminate pairs like ‘s’ and ‘s,’ ‘re’ and ‘le,’ ‘st’ and ‘st.’” “Then, it transformed into the single character ‘Cone’—pine cone.” “However, this pine cone is part of the finial on the bed’s canopy—and it’s shaped like an eerie clown.” He then stepped inside the curtained enclosure and began stacking small tables and chairs one by one atop the futon. When the last tansu was placed atop the pile, Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō gasped and held their breath. For the pine cone-shaped finial had opened its mouth, from which white powder sifted down in a dry cascade. Then Hōsui began recounting the three mysterious deaths that had cast a pall over Black Death Hall’s past.

“This is the mystery of darkness—the malevolent spirit of Kuroshikikan. To phrase it through rhetorical lens, one might call it a medieval heretic’s device. Yet you’ll grasp its mechanism once you recall that all three past mysterious deaths occurred while victims shared their beds. When weight exceeding two persons—a forbidden act—is applied, the pinecone finial opens to release this powder. In Maria Anna’s era such contraptions held aphrodisiacs, but here it serves as a peachwood chastity belt—for this powder is stramonihinas (Note), a botanical toxin of near-legendary rarity. Upon contact with nasal membranes, it induces violent hallucinations—thus causing Denjirō’s case in Meiji 29 and Fudeko’s in Meiji 35, until finally claiming Dr. Sanzō’s life as he clutched that doll. This curse of Digsby’s embodies what’s inscribed in *The Dance of Death*—‘Shanar heretics shall lie in hell’s depths.’”

(Note) Later, Hōsui remarked with astonishment that stramonihinas had proven to be more than mere legend. It was documented solely in the writings of Georg Bartisch (a 16th-century Königsberg pharmacologist), and in modern times, only by a missionary physician named Fisch in 1895—affiliated with the German East Africa Company, which promoted Indian hemp cultivation. And there exists only a single report suggesting that on rare occasions when Strychnos genus plants (the source of curare arrow poison) parasitize Indian hemp, natives highly prize the resulting fruit for sorcerous practices—though this may well be such a case—with no further documentation extant. The empty bottle found in Kuroshikikan’s drug room had likely been left there because Dr. Sanzō had been awaiting its delivery from Digsby.

With this final elucidation, all the dark shadows of the past that had shrouded Kuroshikikan vanished.

However, Prosecutor Shikura’s tone—exhilaration tinged with faint disappointment—

“Indeed, you spoke—but you’ve uncovered nothing about the current case.” “Rather than that, how do you interpret this contradiction?” “From the door to the midpoint of the room, under the carpet, doll footprints had been marked with water.” “But once they enter the tunnel, they turn into human footprints!” “However, Prosecutor Shikura—that *plus-minus* is precisely the point.” “Since I never believed in the doll’s existence from the start, there was no need for me to mention it.” “However, I don’t think this one point can possibly be dismissed as mere coincidence.” “Because when comparing the slipper marks in the tunnel to the doll’s footprints, both the stride length and total footprint length are identical—and furthermore, the slipper marks align perfectly with the doll’s stride.” “Now, Inspector Kumajirō—this is truly an intriguing case study,” Hōsui continued, standing before the fireplace and warming his hands over the red embers.

“Now, those doll footprints were originally something I created by measuring the spread of water droplets beneath the carpet. “And it was based on the most distinct parts at the upper and lower ends—in other words, the areas with the highest concentration of water droplets… So you see, I can reproduce the trick I call ‘plus-minus.’” “And that is none other than attaching two more slippers face-up beneath a slipper, then interleaving those two slippers alternately.” “Then, after generously soaking them with water from the opened door, you first firmly step on the back cover with your heel.” “Since a slightly smaller circular force is applied to the center of the cover, the pressed-out water naturally forms an upward parenthesis shape (), wouldn’t you agree?” “Next, when you step on that front cover with your foreheel, the horseshoe shape causes water near both ends—closer to the edges than the center—to spurt out more forcefully, forming downward parentheses (( in shape.” “Then they alternately arranged those two types of parenthesis-shaped water marks—upper and lower—left and right.” “In other words, the culprit had measured in advance the doll’s footprint—three times the size of an average person’s.” “By adjusting the stride length to match, the area between those two parentheses naturally transformed into a shape reminiscent of the doll’s footprint.” “Therefore, the total length of the slippers became equal to the toddling doll’s stride length—which is why all positive and negative imprints ended up reversed.”

Thus, as the grotesquely elaborate technique was laid bare and the doll's form dissolved into nothingness, it became clear that the criminal's purpose in invading this chamber must lie with either the corpse luminescence or the wound emblem—one of these two phenomena. It was already 11:30 PM— Yet Hōsui showed no indication of retreating, determined to force through to a resolution by whatever means necessary in the dead of night.

Before long, the prosecutor let out a sound that was not quite a sigh and spoke.

“Hōsui—isn’t this entire case just a chain of synonyms built upon Faust’s incantation?” “Fire and fire, water and water, wind and wind…” “But that photographic plate—I still can’t swallow what its combination signifies.” “Synonyms⁉ So you’d bind this tragedy to some grand design?” Hōsui murmured with sardonic edge before sharply cutting himself off. “Ah! Shikura—synonyms...the plate.” He suddenly sprang up shouting, “I’m beginning to see the wound emblem’s genesis!” and vanished from the room like a gust. When he returned moments later, cheeks flushed, he clutched yesterday’s unsealed will. Aligning one of the twin emblems from its upper margin against the wound emblem photograph under the electric lamp’s glare, both men groaned involuntarily—the match was flawless. Hōsui gulped his brought tea and began: “Utterly peerless.”

“Truly unparalleled! The criminal’s intellectual creation is truly astonishing,” Hōsui declared, holding up the will. “This stationery was altered to its current form over a year ago. Of course, even before that—that photographic plate had captured the madness-tinged elements lurking behind this incident.” He leaned forward intently. “Because I need you to recall Dr. Oshikane’s testimony regarding it.” “Even without that,” he continued, tapping the document, “as you can see here, Sanzō completed drafting his will and sprinkled antique military-grade copper powder over it.” Turning sharply to Kumajirō, he demanded, “Now Inspector—copper possesses self-luminous properties that imprint on photographic plates in darkness, does it not?” Ah, that prologue—the overture to this horrific tragedy, he thought grimly. “Now then, let us commence the recitation.” “That night, Sanzō placed both wills in the safe’s drawer with the torn copy underneath—but prior to that,” Hōsui’s voice dropped ominously, “the culprit had already laid a photographic plate in that dark recess.” He paced before the fireplace, shadows dancing across his face. “Thus, when Sanzō opened the safe the next morning and burned one copy before the assembled family—the very copy from which the impression had been taken—then stored the remaining will back inside... someone must have retrieved that photographic plate containing the full duplicated text during those critical moments.” His eyes gleamed with forensic triumph. “Indeed, that brief interval compelled Dr. Faust to seal his pact with the devil.” Holding up the burned fragment, he concluded, “Even judged by intuition alone, this single charred page corresponds precisely to half of the corpse diagram from my reveries—and serving as coordinates, it conjured a terrifying vortex within that phantasmal space.”

“Indeed, that photographic plate is an unfathomable mystery,” said Inspector Kumajirō. “However, the conclusion must naturally hinge on who left the scene first—” His arms dropped limply as profound disappointment washed over his face. “Of course, that memory can hardly remain clear by now,” Hōsui responded. “Then, what is the relationship between that wound emblem and the photographic plate?” “That,” Hōsui said quietly, “is the old wisdom of Roger Bacon—an English monk from 1214 to 1292. Though renowned as a magician-alchemist, he was fundamentally an extraordinary scientist said to have invented gunpowder in the thirteenth century.” He held up Avrino’s *The Miracle Collection of Holy Monks*. “Here’s an anecdote about Bacon engraving a precise cross on a corpse’s back at Guildford Chapel. Yet consider his projectile—pyrophoric lead wrapped in sulfur and iron powder.” His finger tapped the diagram. “When exposed to air, it bursts into crimson flames like a serpent’s tongue. This very essence of technical sorcery laid bare both Bacon’s methods and the genesis of our wound emblem.” Leaning forward, Hōsui’s tone turned clinical. “Inspector, you know biological reactions vanish from skin and nails just before cardiac arrest. When death comes violently—” he snapped his fingers “—sweat glands contract instantaneously. Apply flash heat then, and you get scalpel-sharp incisions.” He aligned two photographic plates. “The killer used this principle on Mrs. Dannenberg in her final moments. First, they acid-etched olive wreaths along emblem outlines cut from these plates.” His hands mimicked assembling components. “Then they packed the hollow with pyrophoric lead. Press it swiftly against the temples—” a quick slap against his own head “—and ignition leaves perfect groove-like emblems.” Hōsui smirked at Kumajirō’s ashen face. “Sickening, isn’t it? This ‘technical sorcery’ is mere primitive chemistry.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “Yet its mystic spirit transmuted chemical symbols into puppet strings for far too long.”

And so, when the doll’s existence vanished like a bubble in a dream, it became necessary to conclude that the culprit had discarded a slip of paper bearing Mrs. Dannenberg’s own signature—along with memos and pencils. Yet how had the culprit managed to steal that distinctive autograph? Moreover, pursuing the photographic plate to its logical extreme meant one had to trace back to the Divine Inquisition itself and seek its origins there. After silently contemplating for some time, Hōsui—for reasons unknown—summoned Nobuko despite the late hour.

“I believe this is likely what you summoned me for,” Nobuko began, taking a seat. Her demeanor still overflowed with bright affection. “Yesterday, Mr. Levez publicly proposed marriage to me. “…and he told me to answer his proposal with one of these two…” Her voice trailed off, as if mourning life’s too-swift transformations. But soon, there was something she took out from her pocket—an unseasonably luxurious radiance that inadvertently froze the eyes of the three. It was two crown pins. Upon them, one bore a ruby and the other an alexandrite, each set on platinum bases, their marquise-cut convex facets glittering with what must have been a hundred and twenty to thirty carats. Nobuko let out a feeble sigh, then moved her tongue heavily as she began to speak.

“In other words, the dear yellow—the alexandrite—signifies acceptance, while the ruby’s blood, of course, portends rejection.” “And he told me to use these two as indicators of acceptance or refusal—to wear one of them in my hair during the performance—”

“Shall I attempt a conjecture?” he said with narrowed eyes that gleamed slyly, yet for some reason Hōsui’s chest heaved violently. “The other day, you avoided Levez and took refuge in the Tree Bark Pavilion, didn’t you?” “No, I bear no moral responsibility for Mr. Levez’s death!” Nobuko shouted, her breath ragged. “Actually, I wore the alexandrite. “So, the two of us—Mr. Levez and I—were going to descend this Harz mountain (where demons hold their so-called Walpurgis Feast) together.”

Then, peering intently into Hōsui’s face as if pleading, she said, “Please, tell me the truth. Could it be that he took his own life? No, absolutely not—not when I was wearing the alexandrite…”

At that moment, a dark shadow swept across Hōsui’s face, and in an instant, a tormented expression spilled over it. That shadow—indeed, there had been a paradox within his heart, and Nobuko’s words now shattered it to dust.

"No, it was definitely murder," Hōsui declared in a grave voice. "However—the reason I summoned you here concerns last year’s assembly where Dr. Sanzō announced his will: who do you believe departed first?"

Since nearly a year had already passed, it was naturally assumed that Nobuko would shake her head without hesitation. However, that seemingly meaningful remark appeared to make Nobuko realize something. Suddenly, a strange agitation coursed through her entire body. “That… well… it was Mr. Levez,” Nobuko replied, her face contorting painfully as she wrestled fiercely with the conflict of whether to speak or remain silent. But soon, as if steeling her resolve, she gazed resolutely at Hōsui.

“I cannot possibly bring myself to tell you this now.” “However, I will inform you later—through a written note.”

Hōsui nodded with satisfaction and terminated Nobuko’s interrogation.

Inspector Kumajirō appeared dissatisfied that Hōsui had not addressed the matter of Nobuko—now enveloped in the most unfavorable testimony regarding today’s incident—in the slightest... Yet as a final means to uncover the profound secret concealed within the photographic plate, they resolved at last to recreate the scene of the Divine Inquisition. Of course, prior to that, Hōsui had directed plainclothes officers toward Chinako and was able to learn the positions the seven had occupied at the time. Now, to describe this arrangement: Mrs. Dannenberg alone was positioned opposite them, with the Glorified Hand (a hanged corpse’s hand preserved in vinegar and further desiccated) placed between. Before her, counting from the left—Nobuko, Chinako, Mrs. Serena, Mrs. Krivov, and Hatatarō—the remaining five formed a semicircle at considerable intervals. Only Levez occupied a seat slightly hunched before Mrs. Serena at the semicircle’s apex. And the positions of the six people had their backs to the entrance door.

When they entered the same room as before and Inspector Kumajirō took out the Glorified Hand from the iron basket, there was something about the trembling of its fingers that evoked immeasurable terror. It seemed to mock its former existence as part of a human body, for nowhere could be seen any lines or masses resembling such. It was nothing but a grotesque amalgamation of motley colors and misshapen forms—perhaps resembling a bonsai-like root carving of unnaturally twisted wood. Looking at its parchment-colored skin riddled with fine cracks across its surface, one might have thought it resembled the peeled cover of a Japanese-style book. By now, it had become something in which finding any physical resemblance was no longer possible. Moreover, the corpse candles placed on its fingertips each had a specific orientation and mark. Though they gave off a slightly duller luster, their appearance was no different from ordinary white wax in any way. Then, as they transferred the flame from one end to the other, it began to ignite with a sizzling sound—like hearing a familiar whisper—and a reddish-brown light, as if blood had been diluted, spread to every corner of the room. As this was happening, something eerily hazy began to obscure the vision of Hōsui, who stood in Mrs. Dannenberg’s position. It was a fog-like substance with a peculiar odor that gradually began to envelop the five candle bodies from their bases, and when the flames started to sway and flicker, the room dimmed abruptly, as though sinking a level deeper. At that moment, Hōsui’s hand reached out and began examining each of the corpse candles one by one. Then, it was discovered that all five had inexplicable tiny holes at their bases—specifically, the three central ones each had one on both sides, while the two at either end each had one on the inner side. Seeing this, Kumajirō twisted the dimmer switch, and the eerie mist transformed into a cloud of Hōsui’s morbid inquiry. Eventually, he smirked smugly and glanced back at the two of them.

“The purpose of these micropores was twofold—to serve as a veil of concealment and to induce a kind of crystal gazing,” Hōsui explained. “Since each connects to a wick hole, the wax vapor channeled through them rises along the candle bodies.” “However,” he continued, “once this vapor formed a wall before Mrs. Dannenberg’s face and made the flames of the central three candles flicker to dim the light...” Naturally, the face of the person at the circle’s center became farthest from the undisturbed light at both ends. Thus, that face would have been completely invisible from Mrs. Dannenberg’s vantage point. “Moreover,” Hōsui added, “the two end candles were buffeted by steam rising from both sides, tilting their flames sideways.” “As the light’s position skewed further, the faces of those at either end would also disappear behind this obstructing glare when viewed from her position.” “In short—even if these three—Hatatarō, Nobuko, and Mrs. Serena—had slipped out mid-ceremony, Mrs. Dannenberg could never have witnessed their departure.” “The others too,” he pressed on, “likely lost all sense of their surroundings in that uncanny atmosphere.” “One might even say it’d be stranger if anyone had noticed.” “This explains why Nobuko’s act of bringing water immediately after Mrs. Dannenberg’s collapse appears suspicious.” “One could argue she’d already left beforehand and prepared the water in anticipation.” “But let me emphasize—” Hōsui concluded with a dismissive wave, “—this remains mere conjecture pointing to possibility, not evidence.”

“Undoubtedly, these micropores must be the culprit’s handiwork,” Prosecutor Shikura said, drawing his chin back deeply before pressing further. “But when Mrs. Dannenberg collapsed after shouting ‘Sanzō!’—I don’t believe that woman’s hallucinations alone explain it.” “An astute deduction,” Hōsui replied. “This was no mere hallucination. Mrs. Dannenberg was undoubtedly what Ribot termed a second-sighted individual—one capable of generating visions from illusions through what Saint Teresa described as incense-induced trances. When viewing through vaporous curtains, contours grow vivid and afterimages form bizarre shapes. In this case, the faces of Chinako and Mrs. Krivov—positioned inward from the end candles—must have overlapped as double images through intense staring. That illusion likely triggered Mrs. Dannenberg’s vision.” His voice grew reverent. “Ribot called this the human spirit’s greatest mystical force—considered humanity’s highest trait in medieval times. Ah, Mrs. Dannenberg surely possessed hysteric visionary power akin to Joan of Arc and Saint Teresa themselves.”

Thus, as Hōsui’s deductions reversed course and surged forward, they were able to add three individuals—Hatatarō and those below him—to the list of suspects beyond Tsutako alone, including whoever had lurked on the veranda that night and dropped the photographic plate. At that very moment, Hōsui’s mental combativeness reached its zenith under ideal conditions. So intense were his neural exertions—one could almost hear their pulsing rhythm—that it seemed possible the case might conclude before dawn. After walking down the darkened corridor and returning to the former room, they found awaiting them the answer Nobuko had promised earlier. Within the constricting ring of the Divine Inquisition’s suspicions—now cast like a final trump card upon those four remaining individuals—the decisive moment had arrived. Hōsui’s lips parched dry as his right hand gripping the envelope began trembling unnervingly. And he cried out inwardly: Nobuko! The lodestar of fate now rests upon thy breast!

III. Father, I too am a child of man. Last year when the will in question was announced—there had to have been someone who left the gathering immediately and retrieved from the safe the photographic plate that had reproduced the full text before Sanzō could reach it. Given this, it could be said that it was only natural for Hōsui—clutching Nobuko’s sealed letter bearing that person’s name—to have cried out thus in his heart. Yet the moment he broke the seal and glimpsed its contents, for some reason the light vanished from his eyes. All tension drained from his body at once as he weakly tossed the scrap of paper onto the desk. When the prosecutor, startled, peered at it, there was no human name—only the following phrase was recorded.

——In ancient Thule (1), there was a listening tube (2).

Note (1) Thule——. In Goethe’s *Faust*, this marks the first appearance of the folk song sung by Gretchen. It was when she received the ring from Faust that the catalyst occurred, marking the beginning of her tragic fate. (2) Listening Tube——. It was first established in the Spanish Inquisition. In the UFA film *The Congress Dances*, that scene where Metternich eavesdrops on Wellington’s conversations exemplifies this device.

“Ah, a listening tube—” “It’s not just Nobuko alone who knows its terror,” Hōsui remarked with a bitter smile, nodding to himself. “And indeed, Dr. Faust’s hidden listening tube captures every word of our conversations without fail, regardless of time or place.” “So of course, if we were to act carelessly, it’s only natural that Nobuko would share Gretchen’s fate.” “That demon’s ear will undoubtedly find some way to exact its insidious retribution.”

“Well, let’s set that aside for now…” “By the way—though I may be repeating myself—about that Divine Inquisition scene you just recreated...” As Hōsui looked up at the voice, skeptical wrinkles shifted across the prosecutor’s face. "You stated that Mrs. Dannenberg was a second-sighted person, and what’s more astonishing, you’ve concluded that the culprit anticipated that hallucination." "But such a super-metaphysical form of the mind—" “If you claim that such a thing could be easily predicted, then your argument is nothing but ambiguity.” "It can hardly be called profound."

Hōsui made a slight gesture and sighed ironically before fixing his gaze on the prosecutor. “Why—I’m no Hirsch... I’m not suggesting Mrs. Dannenberg suffered from some mystical-heroic chronic hallucinatory paranoia—the sort afflicting Swedenborg or the Maid of Orleans.” “However, because a particular faculty of hers was excessively developed, whenever those traits encountered organic stimuli, they’d craft an artificial abstraction upon her senses.” “In essence, she’d perceive vaguely scattered fragments as a unified reality.” “Moreover, Prosecutor Shikura—Freud posits that hallucinations symbolize repressed desires.” “In Mrs. Dannenberg’s case, this originated from her terror of Sanzō’s prohibitions—that is to say, her forbidden liaison with Levez.” “Therefore, for the culprit to anticipate her hallucination, they must’ve thoroughly understood those circumstances.” “This ultimately led them to devise that delicate trickery—using corpse candles to induce crystalline fixation.” “Thus they lured Mrs. Dannenberg into light self-hypnosis.” “But Prosecutor Shikura—it was precisely this concept of latent potential that brought me glory…”

Having sharply cut off his words, he began pondering in silence. Then, between reloading his pipe several times, Hōsui appeared to have seized upon a certain concept. He ordered Hatatarō, Mrs. Serena, and Nobuko summoned at once before descending again to the chapel. Within the deserted chapel's hollow interior, a desolate gray gloom permeated every corner, while an impenetrable darkness spreading overhead made the ceiling appear unnaturally low. The only light came from a faint lamp swaying at the altar, its presence rendering the entire space claustrophobic. From there began a dark, womb-like warmth—a darkness tinged with an uncanny reddish hue. Moreover, the ceaselessly fluttering golden ring radiated such fierce intensity that staring at it seared the eyes—as though it were Hōsui's own merciless zeal made manifest, poised to deliver judgment in this decisive moment: a punishment threatening to shake hell's very foundation stones above Dr. Faust's head.

Eventually, the six people gathered around the round table and took their seats. That night’s Hatatarō—unusually for him, who normally carried himself with effortless grace—wore only a velvet short coat, kept his eyes downcast throughout, and toyed with his eerily glowing white hands. Beside him, Nobuko’s small, diligent hands—their healthy luster resembling dried apricots—shone with utterly charming radiance. Yet when observing Mrs. Serena, she remained every inch the heraldic noblewoman, like some shield of love. Behind the classical beauty of her whalebone-stiffened waistcoat—a mottled splendor one might call it—lurked a quietist stillness that seemed to abhor slow-pulsed verbosity. But the chamber’s air was undeniably fraught with peril. The ensuing silence stemmed not merely from suspicions about Hōsui’s motives in excluding Tsutako; each person appeared to harbor private fears and schemes, creating an odd tension of mutual probing that lingered palpably despite its brevity. Then Mrs. Serena cast a fleeting sidelong glance at Nobuko—and something came spilling out almost reflexively.

“Mr. Hōsui, properly weighing testimony lies at the very foundation of an investigator’s authority.” “Indeed, those present earlier distinctly heard the rustling sound of Nobuko-san moving.”

“No, I had my hands on the harp’s front frame and remained perfectly still, holding my breath,” Nobuko retorted without hesitation, her tone restrained. “So if they say only the long string sounded, that’s another account that was heard... In any case, your ladyship’s allegory runs entirely counter to reality.”

At that moment, Hatatarō adopted an oddly mature demeanor, letting a cold artificial smile play upon one cheek. “Now, I would like you to examine that seductive nature, Mr. Hōsui.—What exactly did that approaching force from the harp signify at that time?” “But that resounding melody—” “It was not the beautiful march of the Guards Cuirassiers, but rather those reckless black huntsmen—their short jackets thrown open, chest hair exposed, sniffing around the blood trails left by deer.” “No, I’m certain he’s developed a taste for human flesh.”

And so, Nobuko’s position under scrutiny was clearly unfavorable. Just when it seemed that cruel verdict might bind her forever, Hōsui turned a feverish gaze— “No—if I recall correctly—it should have been fish rather than human flesh. However, because that mysterious fish approached, Mrs. Krivov actually began retreating in the opposite direction from what you all imagined.” Though delivered with his usual theatrical flourish, this single statement completely reversed the standing between Nobuko and the other two.

“By the way, it was just before the decorative lights went out. At that moment, you were certainly performing a glissando across all the strings, weren’t you, Nobuko-san?” “Then, the moment the lights were turned off immediately after that, you reflexively panicked and pressed down all the pedals.” “In fact, the growl that occurred at that moment happened precisely in the sequence of pedals you pressed. Consequently, it was perceived as an approaching kinetic force.” “In other words, if you press the pedals while the resonance still lingers, a growl will arise in the harp.” “Because of that malicious gossip, you’ve forced me to explain such a self-evident truth.” His carefree demeanor vanished as Hōsui’s tone turned solemn.

“However, if that’s the case, the entire aspect of the Krivov incident becomes completely reversed.” “If Mrs. Krivov had heard that sound, naturally you two would have retreated toward them.” “So, Mr. Hatatarō, at that moment, there should have been something you held in your hand instead of the bow.” “No, let me state it bluntly.” “When the decorative lights came back on, why were you, who should be left-handed, holding the bow in your right hand and the violin in your left?”

Crushed by the surging force that burst forth from Hōsui’s grievous energy, Hatatarō had turned completely rigid, as if fossilized. That must have been something utterly unexpected for him—beyond anything he could have imagined up to that point. Hōsui opened his mouth leisurely, with an attitude that seemed to toy with his opponent. “By the way, Mr. Hatatarō, are you aware of the Polish proverb that says, ‘A violinist is killed by pulling’? In fact, if you examine Lichtheim’s *The Development of Talent and Genius*—which Lombroso praised—you’ll find within it accounts of Schumann and Chopin suffering from finger paralysis, and in the revised edition, even the tribulations of violinist Ysaÿe are listed. Moreover, it discusses the interosseous muscles”—he paused to tap his own fingers—“the finger muscles that constitute the very lifeblood of a musician.” “According to this,” he continued, “Lichtheim argues that sudden exertion induces spasms in those very muscles. However”—his voice dropped a register—“of course, that is not necessarily a definitive conclusion in this case.” Hōsui leaned forward slightly. “Yet as long as you are a performer, I believe you cannot possibly ignore that inertia.” His eyes narrowed. “Probably after that incident, it became impossible for you to hold the bow with two fingers of your left hand—didn’t it?”

“S-s-so, is that all there is to it—your spiritualism?” The uncanny precocious youth rattled the desk legs with that disgustingly grating sound, his face contorted in spasmodic hatred as he finally forced out a voice scraped raw from his throat. Yet Hōsui pressed his relentless pursuit. “Not at all—that itself constitutes a precise and balanced system,” he declared with astonishing words. “Moreover, you once had Mrs. Dannenberg write the doll’s name, did you not?” His grand theatrical gesture sent the gathering’s excitement surging to its peak.

"In fact, I recreated the scene of the Divine Inquisition trial earlier. Though not during that recreation itself, I discovered that Mrs. Dannenberg was an astonishing second-sighted individual endowed with comparative clairvoyant vision." "In that case, would it not follow that when a seizure occurred, automatic writing—a type of abnormal psychological phenomenon originating from psychologist Janet’s experiments where one’s numbed hand is covertly guided to hold a brush and write characters several times without their awareness, continuing to reproduce them even after release—would become possible through her paralyzed hand?" "Well, even the hook-shaped tear marks near Nobuko-san’s door make evident that Mrs. Dannenberg’s right hand was paralyzed at that time." However, in this instance, matters took an additional unexpected turn, creating an even more bizarre contradiction. That is to say, when stimulating the non-dominant hand, one occasionally writes characters similar to those requested rather than the exact ones. Of course, that night when Nobuko knocked over the vase and Mrs. Dannenberg entered in her place—the enraged Mrs. Dannenberg revealing only her right shoulder through the bedroom curtains— "You judged the timing opportune and attempted automatic writing, did you not?" "But what Mrs. Dannenberg produced differed from what you had demanded." On a scrap of paper atop the desk, Hōsui wrote two names and circled three central characters with particular emphasis.

Th érè se　　Sere na

Instantly, a unified groan escaped from the mouths of the entire group. Mrs. Serena—more stunned than angry by the sheer unexpectedness of the facts—could only stare vacantly at Hatatarō, utterly dazed. Hatatarō streamed greasy sweat profusely, his entire body writhing like a whipcord, rage causing his voice to undulate.

“Mr. Hōsui—no, Your Excellency! The dinosaur of this case is none other than you. But the fingerprints of my father that were said to be imprinted on Mr. Ottokar’s throat—those dinosaur claw marks—are they your doppelgänger after all?” “Dinosaur⁉” Hōsui bit out each word sharply. “Indeed, it is an undeniable fact that something we might call a dinosaur was present in that mortuary chamber. But the other half of this dual role belongs to an orchid species—or pedantically speaking, an agave.” He tore apart Levez’s collar that he had retrieved from his pocket, revealing between its folded layers a shrunken brown band with a net-like pattern. Furthermore, on its front surface, layered and woven in multiple overlapping layers, were two oval-shaped objects that resembled the form of thumbs. Dropping his fingertip with a tap on top of it, Hōsui continued. “In that case, it’s already evident at a glance. Of course, if they absorb even a little moisture, it’s said that agave fibers can shrink up to eight times their original length. Naturally, the reason for requiring a hot waterfall in the anteroom of the mourning chamber goes without saying.” “Now, initially, the culprit tied those fibers to the main switch handle and used their contraction to cut off the electricity. And when the handle faced downward, they slipped out cleanly from it and fell into the water flow, so naturally they would be carried out through the drain hole.” “Then, needless to say, they next utilized the shape of thumbprints on a collar made from agave fibers to strangle Levez’s throat.” “In other words, Levez’s death was not a homicide but a suicide.” “So, imagining the general sequence of events—first, after confirming that Levez had entered the inner mortuary chamber, the culprit created the hot waterfall.” “Therefore, as the humidity gradually increased, the agave fibers began to contract, causing Levez to progressively struggle for breath.” “Then some abnormal cause that necessitated suicide for that man occurred.” “Therefore, it naturally follows that two wills were at work in Levez’s death—the thumbprints fashioned to resemble Sanzō’s overlaid with that man’s anguished psyche.” With that, Hōsui abruptly cut off his words and fixed Hatatarō with a piercing gaze. “However, of course, no one’s face has appeared on this collar.” “However, eventually, the dinosaur of this case will find itself unable to extract its claws from the links of the chain.”

Furuyatsuki Hatatarō, drenched in sweat, appeared as though bile had flooded his entire body within those brief moments. Already drained of the strength to roar, he stared vacantly into empty space. Then, as his swaying body stiffened like a rod, the distraught Hatatarō slammed his face horizontally against the desk and collapsed.

After Hōsui had him taken out of the room, Mrs. Serena gave a slight nod of acknowledgment and followed behind. And so, in the room where Nobuko alone remained, a slackened, languid silence hung for a time—ah, to think that abnormally precocious child had been the culprit all along. Eventually, Hōsui—who had been pacing about—took his seat, thudded his folded arms onto the desk, and leveled a meaningful remark at Nobuko.

“Now then, about that shift from yellow to crimson—is that right? I want to know the truth of it no matter what.”

At that very moment, her face twitched nervously, and words of a fastidiousness that could only be born of contempt and humiliation escaped her lips.

“So you’re asking me for associative words?” “From yellow to crimson—wouldn’t that produce orange-yellow?” “Orange-yellow—ah, you’re referring to that Blood Orange, aren’t you?” “So you must think soap bubbles flew from the straw I used to drink lemon water...” “No, I habitually drink through bundled straws.” “But in that case, wouldn’t such a bundle fail to align with the strings all at once?” Nobuko’s sarcasm intensified violently. “And what connection could that Danish flag at half-mast possibly have to do with me?” “And what sort of potassium cyanide—”

"No, that's absolutely not…" "Rather, that is something I should be saying to Mrs. Tsutako," Hōsui said quietly, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "Actually, that shift from yellow to crimson—that's precisely the relationship between alexandrite and ruby." "Now, Miss Nobuko, isn't it true that at that time you wore the symbol of rejection—a ruby?"

“No, absolutely not…” Nobuko stared fixedly at Hōsui, steeling her voice. “As evidence—though this was just before the performance began—I distinctly recall Mr. Hatatarō examining my hair ornament and asking, ‘Why ever would you have Mr. Levez’s Alexandrite—?’” This single statement from Nobuko not only failed to illuminate the mystery of Levez’s suicide but also deepened Hōsui’s pangs of conscience and shame, further weighting the eternal burden festering in some dark corner of his heart. Yet Hōsui ultimately parted the mysterious veil shrouding this tragedy, succeeding in what had been deemed an impossible cesarean operation of truth.

By that time, the hours of night had reached their end, and a small man with a horn lantern hung from a button on his chest emerged from the gatekeeper’s hut.

One by one, thrushes began to sing, and soon from beyond the fortress tower, the dawn—unable to resist welling up with a beautiful poetic heart—began to ascend. Hōsui stood with Nobuko by the window, enraptured by the panoramic vista, until he placed his hand on her shoulder and spoke, suffused with immeasurable meaning and attachment.

"Miss Nobuko, the era of storms and urgency has already passed." "This mansion too will return to its former resplendent world of Latin poetry and love songs."

“Now then, since I’ve completely extracted those rattlesnake’s fangs as we discussed, you’ll honor that promise to me without fear, won’t you?” “Everything has ended—a new world now begins.” “I should like to mark the conclusion of this mysterious case with a poem by Kernell such as this.” “When the lamp of night passes through yellow autumn, it shall become crimson spring flowers—”

However, when the next afternoon arrived—contrary to expectations that Nobuko’s nameplate would come flying through the air with a whoosh—Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō made an unexpected visit to report that Nobuko herself had been fatally shot with a pistol. Upon hearing this, Hōsui not only displayed a despair so profound it nearly made him abandon the case entirely, but just as he was about to grasp the long-sought conclusive evidence, that hope was utterly severed—leaving any prospect of a legal resolution to this case forever beyond reach. Thirty minutes later, Hōsui appeared at Kuroshikan with a darkened complexion. And now, as Hōsui stood before Nobuko’s corpse—this modern-day Gretchen who had been ceaselessly toyed with by Dr. Faust’s tidal demonic hands since the case’s inception, ultimately cast from life’s precipice—he felt her death inexplicably demanding moral accountability from him, until that sentiment transformed into boundless shame and remorse. However, when he stepped into the crime scene—Nobuko’s room—there, vividly imprinted, lay the criminal’s final will: Kobold sich muhen (Work diligently, kobolds).

Moreover, this time it was not imprinted on the usual scrap of paper but on Nobuko’s body. The reason being—her outstretched left hand to left foot formed a perfectly vertical line, while her right hand and right foot splayed into a mirrored L-shape, creating an overall form that somehow seemed reminiscent of the Kobold’s *K*. Her body lay on its back with its feet positioned three feet from the doorway, angled diagonally to the right, wearing the same anguished expression as Levez and Mrs. Krivov—yet not the slightest shadow of fear could be seen upon it. The corpse bore a gaping bullet wound on its right temple, with blood that had flowed out thickly clinging to the mat beneath. Yet given that she wore outdoor attire—even gloves—it was speculated she might have been suddenly shot while attempting to visit Hōsui. Furthermore, the pistol used in the crime had been discarded outside the door—beneath the handle—and a latch had been fastened on the door from the outside.

However, this situation was accompanied by an eerie testimony—one could almost hear the rustling of Dr. Faust's robes slithering darkly through the shadows.

When the gunshot resounded around two o'clock, paralyzing terror gripped the entire mansion, and not a single soul attempted to rush to the scene. Then, after about ten minutes had passed, Mrs. Serena—who had been trembling in the adjacent room—reportedly heard the sound of a door closing and a latch being fastened. Thus, even as Dr. Faust's covert maneuvers were revealed, Hōsui—despite this ostensibly straightforward turn—could do nothing but observe helplessly. Naturally, no fingerprints could reasonably remain on the pistol, and given the extraordinary circumstances, all movements within the household remained shrouded in mystery. And so it was conjectured that her attempt to fulfill the promise with Hōsui—she who had been relentlessly pursued by misfortune throughout this case—had delivered final tragedy upon this ill-starred maiden.

And so, even Nobuko—the final trump card—had fallen. As the demon’s audacious leaps gave way to tides that surged in frenzied turbulence, all hope of resolution seemed at last to have been utterly extinguished. However, from that night until around noon the next day, Hōsui persisted in his characteristic manner—pursuing thoughts so intense they seemed to drain his very brain matter—and through that very process, he unexpectedly discovered a paradoxical effect in Nobuko’s death.

That day, shortly after lunch had ended, when Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō—who had come to visit Hōsui—opened the door to his study, they were suddenly struck by Hōsui's ferocious glare at the very moment of their encounter. He swung his hands violently as he paced around the room, continuing to shout in a frenzied manner.

“Ah, how about this fairy-tale architecture—” “The criminal’s extraordinary intellect is truly astonishing, is it not?” He stopped, eyes fixed eerily as he first drew a semicircle in the air, then undulated it into a grand vertical waveform. “Behold this magnificent finale—Dr. Faust’s grand *mie* pose that left the gallery gasping! This utterly unforeseen spectacle of total contrition!” “Hey, Shikura—if you take the initials of earth spirits, water spirits, and fire spirits, then add the symbol representing this case’s resolution, it becomes *Küss* (a kiss).” “Ah, wasn’t there a replica of Rodin’s ‘The Kiss’ placed on the mantelpiece in the hall?” “Come on, let’s head to Kuroshikan.” “I will lower the final velvet curtain with my own hands.”

When the three arrived at Kuroshikan, Nobuko’s funeral had just begun.

That day, the wind was fierce, and pale ink-colored clouds heavy with impending snow hung low enough to brush against the treetops of the grove, remaining motionless for what felt like an eternity. Amidst such bleak scenery, the grounds held a profound desolation with scarcely a human figure in sight. The hedge of symbolic trees swayed, dead branches rustled and clattered, and from within this scene welled up and swelled forth the hymn of divine mercy being conducted in the chapel. When Hōsui entered the mansion and went alone into the hall, the fact that his conclusion had been corroborated there became clear from the complexion he showed when he reappeared before the two in Mrs. Dannenberg’s room. And now, upon learning that all involved parties—down to Dr. Oshikane added to the family members—had gathered in the chapel, Hōsui—for reasons unknown—ordered the funeral proceedings to be temporarily postponed.

And then, “Of course, there’s no doubt the criminal is inside the chapel,” Hōsui stated coldly. “Moreover, they’re already in a state where movement is utterly impossible.” He fell silent for a moment, his features contorting with conflicted emotions before continuing, “But I feel compelled—while Nobuko’s remains still lie upon this earth—to speak the culprit’s name to her.” Pivoting sharply to Prosecutor Shikura, he declared, “Now then, with even that colossus’s faction having dissolved into nothingness, this mansion stands fully exposed beneath the sun’s glare once more.” His voice took on a lecturing cadence as he gestured toward an invisible chalkboard. “Let us begin by methodically reconstructing the first incident—the Dannenberg case.” “Until now,” he continued, fingers steepled in contemplation, “I’d overlooked the most direct connection in explaining why Mrs. Dannenberg selected only the blood orange—the santonin-induced xanthopsia.” His index finger tapped against his temple. “The anthelmintic’s yellowing effect on her visual field, compounded by mild myopia, rendered both pears and standard oranges indistinguishable from the plate’s ivory glaze.” “Thus,” he concluded with clinical precision, “only the blood orange’s distinctive crimson hue penetrated her chemically altered perception.” A mirthless smile played across his lips as he added, “Moreover, santonin’s accompanying gustatory hallucinations ensured she swallowed that rancid toxin—far exceeding lethal doses—without suspicion.” His pacing intensified, boots clicking rhythmically against the floorboards. “Yet this insight wasn’t serendipitous,” he insisted, whirling to face his colleagues. “Its roots lie in the psychological profile I imposed upon our quarry.” Leaning forward conspiratorially, he lowered his voice: “Strangely enough, this very santonin also ensnared the culprit—the two perspectives aligning like photographic negative and print.” “The proof?” He snapped his fingers. “Those gardening shoe prints.” A derisive snort escaped him. “Though proven forged through my analysis, their return path inexplicably avoided a perfectly traversable patch of dried grass.” His eyes blazed with triumph. “Within that near-invisible discrepancy—a hair’s breadth from oversight—lay the fatal blind spot sealing their doom.” “There,” he whispered reverently, palm pressed against his chest, “I grasped the divine mechanism of karmic retribution.” Spreading his arms wide in a theatrical gesture, he proclaimed: “In this tragedy’s final act, the poisoner who wielded santonin as Borgia’s adjuvant found themselves felled by its very essence!” Rounding on Shikura with predator-like intensity, he demanded: “Don’t you see? The culprit had ingested santonin themselves! Once you realize this—” His finger jabbed toward an imaginary evidence board “—their irrational avoidance of that grass becomes clear!” “It was a cerebral blind spot,” he concluded, voice dropping to a murmur. “Though experiencing minimal xanthopsia symptoms themselves, they became convinced of its presence—projecting distorted reality onto mundane terrain.”

“And so—they mistook the dried grass that glows yellow at night for a puddle appearing yellow due to xanthopsia—that’s why.” “However, while santonin’s effects on the kidneys were one aspect, its other effect was to transport the source of that corpse luminescence from within the body to the skin’s surface.”

Then, Hōsui entered the curtain and thrust the saber’s blade beneath the bed’s paint coating. Beneath it lay another asphalt-like layer, and when he brought the pencil’s end ring close to it, a faint yet distinct fluorescence was emitted. “Until now,” he said, “there was nothing around the bed that demanded precise scrutiny akin to that given to a corpse—so naturally it went unnoticed.” He continued firmly: “Of course, this asphalt-like substance is pitchblende containing uranium—that goes without saying.” His finger traced an invisible map midair. “The four Holy Monk Corpse-Lights I once mentioned—they all encircle Bohemia’s territory.” A sardonic smile flickered. “Naturally, this was merely a demonstrative stratagem born from old and new believers’ conflicts.” He paused before delivering the coup de grâce: “But their geographic clustering stems solely from their proximity to the Erz Mountains—the primary source.” His tone flattened into clinical finality. “In essence, that ancient mystery amounts to nothing more than a physicochemical trick.” “Now then,” he pivoted sharply toward Shikura, “do you know what ‘arsenic-eater’ means?” Without waiting for an answer: “Medieval monks commonly used arsenic stone as an anaphrodisiac—a practice as notorious as laurel aphrodisiacs.” His voice dropped conspiratorially: “Laurel oil laced with prussic acid—a self-administered poison inducing convulsions and grotesque hallucinations.” He tapped Rodin’s sculpture replica on the mantelpiece. “But according to what I’ve discovered here in *The Kiss*, Mrs. Dannenberg too was an arsenic-eater—she regularly ingested small doses to treat nervous disorders.” His blade-like logic sliced deeper: “Over time, arsenic’s inorganic components permeated her tissues.” A triumphant gleam lit his eyes as he concluded: “Thus when santonin caused edema and sweating? The arsenic deposits concentrated on her skin inevitably reacted with pitchblende’s uranium radiation.”

“Of course, phenomenologically speaking, that should suffice as an explanation,” Hōsui continued, his voice carrying a clinical detachment. “No matter how ambiguously expressed, it undoubtedly possesses a novel allure.” “But still,” Prosecutor Shikura interjected, fingers twisting nervously. “Your explanation seems deliberately evasive of concrete details. Who on earth is the culprit?” He gulped audibly. “Nobuko did swallow the same lemonade as Mrs. Dannenberg that night,” Hōsui conceded, his gaze growing distant. “However... that woman has already been reduced to her primordial elements by Dr. Faust’s hand.”

During this time, Hōsui stood like a lifeless, leaden husk of existence—his bearing rather resembling one who had attained victory at the pinnacle of excruciating torment. Perhaps because the critical juncture of resolution approached, this sudden fatigue that assailed him likely held more allure than anything else. Yet soon an intense force of will surged forth,

“Yes, that Kamiya Nobuko,” he said with a click of his jawbone, and in that instant, a surge of new vigor breathed life into him. “That is none other than the magician of Knitlingen.”

Indeed, the Phantom Dr. Faust of Kuroshikan Mansion was none other than Kamiya Nobuko. Yet when they first heard this revelation, all principles and inherent truths seemed to vanish from Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō like dandelion puffs scattered by a dragonfly’s abrupt turn—but as they gradually composed themselves, an uncanny stillness settled over them, so profoundly silent that not an echo returned. To voice earnest objections now felt ludicrous, even absurd. Foremost among the irrefutable facts contradicting this was that Nobuko had already become the fifth human sacrifice, with unequivocal evidence of her murder documented in the autopsy report bearing Hōsui’s signature. Moreover, Nobuko—who had no conceivable motive beyond familial ties and who had basked in Hōsui’s sympathy and protection—how could anyone believe her to be the culprit? Thus it seemed only natural for Kumajirō to interpret this as manifesting a certain pathological inclination—one particularly prone to afflict those tormented by such mental strain.

"This is enough to make one's mind reel, isn't it?" "Or if you're truly in your right mind, I demand at least one piece of legally valid evidence." "First and foremost, we must reclassify Nobuko's death as suicide." "But Inspector Kumajirō," Hōsui declared with vehemence, mockingly echoing the lack of response, "this time there's something as fine as a hair—or so they say—on the door panel. I shall present it to you as tangible evidence."

“Now then—consider this hypothetical scenario,” Prosecutor Shikura began, his voice taut with analytical intensity. “First, one would attach agave fibers to a needle and lightly fix it into one door panel, inserting one end into the keyhole before pouring water inside.” “Naturally,” he continued, “those fibers would begin contracting, gradually narrowing the door’s opening.” His fingers traced an invisible arc in the air. “At that critical moment, the pistol fired at the temple would be thrown from the hand—falling precisely between the two doors.” “Then,” he pressed on, “after several minutes passed and the doors were locked, the pre-positioned latch would clatter down.” A momentary frown creased his brow. “No—wait—wouldn’t the doors’ movement instead push the pistol out into the corridor?” Drawing a long, shuddering breath that seemed to pull darkness from the mansion’s very walls, he concluded: “Of course, the agave fibers would have withdrawn the needle entirely into the keyhole.” The exhale that followed carried the weight of cryptographic secrets too dense for light to penetrate.

“However, Inspector Kumajirō, once we shift from murder to suicide in this manner, there emerges Nobuko’s confession—invisible to any light.” “It was a whimsical, fairy-like thing—opulent and hedonistic—yet none but those possessed of astonishing spiritual intellect could ever touch its wondrous sensibility.” “Nobuko breathed new life into that utterly clichéd technique…”

“What? A confession?!” The Prosecutor’s face stiffened as if numbed to the very crown of his skull. He let his tobacco fall from his mouth and stared blankly at Hōsui’s face. “Yeah—the eloquence of flames,” Hōsui replied. “Moreover, that flame can never be seen. In Dr. Faust’s final ritual, it served as a cryptographic cipher.” He leaned forward intently. “Now, Shikura—if you press Hair, Ear, Lips, Ear, Nose in sequence, it spells *Hair. Ear. Lips. Ear. Nose*, resolving to *Helen*. That’s the sort of secret code Nobuko embedded within the transition from murder to suicide.” “The initial clue was the K-shape formed by her corpse—a product of self-induced hysterical paralysis.” His finger traced an arc in the air. “As Guriu and Buro’s *The Metamorphosis of Personality* documents, certain hysterics can press steel against their body to induce contralateral paralysis.” “When she pressed the pistol to her right cheek—left hand raised high against the doorframe—rigidity naturally seized her left side.” His voice grew clinical. “As she fired and collapsed, that rigid left half contorted into that uncanny K-shape.” “But this wasn’t some gnome’s handiwork.” A sardonic edge crept into his tone. “The agave fibers bridging the doors formed a semicircle—clearly a U-shape. Meanwhile, the pistol’s trajectory against the door traced an S-curve.” He interlaced his fingers dramatically. “Ah—gnomes, undines, sylphs... Add the ultimate truth of *Suicide*, and the whole coalesces into *Küss*.” “Therein lies Dr. Faust’s confession—grotesque yet ingenious.” His eyes glinted. “Of course, Nobuko had hidden another clue earlier—within the torso of the ‘Kiss’ statue…”

Within it was depicted the spectacular clash of two extraordinary spiritual intellects who had staked their very lives in conflict. The Prosecutor barely managed to exhale the foul, stagnant breath he was on the verge of suffocating from,

“Then naturally that agave fiber trick would have been used on both the bell chamber doors and the zodiac’s circular rose windows—but...” “Yet at that moment when Hatatarō was accused as the culprit and I myself stood atop the pinnacle of victory and peace—precisely then did Nobuko mysteriously commit suicide.” “Hōsui, regarding that utterly insoluble doubt you mentioned...”

“That, Shikura, is from Kerner’s poem—the last thing I said to Nobuko that night: ‘The hue is autumn’s gold; beyond the lamp of night, it becomes spring’s crimson bloom.’” At that very moment, Nobuko must have become aware of her tragic downfall. Because alexandrite—that gemstone—appears crimson when held up to electric light. Thus I came to interpret that Nobuko had directed Levez to that chamber while wearing an alexandrite hair ornament, causing electric light to pass through it and plunge Levez into despair. “Now, Shikura—what do you make of this epigram? ‘Levez—that Hungarian love poet who saw autumn as spring and departed this world—’” Hōsui continued undeterred by the men’s bewildered sighs, taking a deep drag of his tobacco.

“However, that shift from yellow to red—it holds another significance beyond what we’ve discussed. Of course, my perception of santonin-induced xanthopsia was no mere coincidence either.” “Because I had excavated the criminal’s latent state through it.” “To rephrase—it lay in the criminal’s psychological trauma sustained through the act; that is, the reproduction of sensory and emotional experiences tied to the representations and ideas imposed at that moment.” When I recreated the Divine Inquisition’s scene, Nobuko’s scent had struck my nostrils with peculiar intensity—a sensory detail I couldn’t ignore. As an experiment, I’d exhausted every possible sarcasm and satire, directing a perfunctory fabrication toward Hatatarō to test reactions. This was undeniably meant to dispel Nobuko’s vigilance—though let me clarify that Mrs. Dannenberg’s so-called memoir had been ghostwritten by Nobuko under Thérèse’s name, with only Levez’s death and the thumbprint truths holding any validity amidst the falsehoods. On impulse, I’d employed the phrase “from yellow to red—” as an allegory for alexandrite’s chromatic duality relative to rubies—a gambit that unexpectedly backfired. To my surprise, this metaphor mutated within Nobuko’s psyche into an entirely different configuration—a phenomenon explained by Reinhardt’s treatise *The Expression of Pleasure and Displeasure in Lyric Poetry*, which references Halpin’s *Irish Saturnology*. Consider this verse from Halpin’s work: “Saint Patrick declared—There lies Leo, two Ursae Majores, Taurus, and Cancer—” Yet when reaching “Cancer” (巨蟹), one reader famously mispronounced it as “Canalar” (運河)—a Freudian slip revealing how constellation shapes visualized during recitation left sensory traces that warped articulation. This illustrates how associative phenomena manifest not through individual words but through spatial impressions—a principle grotesquely amplified in Nobuko’s case across four incidents spanning from Dannenberg’s murder to the chapel massacre. Her verbal slips proved revelatory: after mentioning a citron, she spoke of “bundling wheat straw to swallow lemon water”—a phrase whose associative backdrop clearly derived from the bell striker’s keyboard array she’d observed earlier. Then came her critical malapropism—referring to Mrs. Dannenberg as “Danebrog” (the Danish flag)—which laid bare her subconscious impression of the armory room’s full layout during that fateful moment in the tree-bark pavilion where she’d watched Levez’s rainbow haze drift through Fitzner’s inscribed verse: *Dann, Nebel-loh-guckten* (“Then the mist gleamed as it drifted in”). Thus did these intermingled impressions crystallize into homologous verbal slippage—the Danish flag substitution serving as cryptographic proof positive.” Hōsui leaned forward intently before concluding: “So then, Shikura—among Nobuko’s four fragmented phrases, only the bell chamber and armory impressions sit anomalously wedged between her bookends of yellow and red.”

“In that case…” Hōsui trailed off, then delivered the final conclusion to his astonishing psychological analysis.

“Then naturally, the yellow and crimson at the beginning and end— “The sensations derived from those two must correspond to the initial Dannenberg case and the final chapel scene.” “And if the final crimson is the vermilion attire of the resplendent court musician, then why did Nobuko perceive the sensation of yellow from the very beginning of the Dannenberg incident?” During that time, Prosecutor Shikura and Inspector Kumajirō were enveloped in a kind of intoxicated awe. However, after some time, Kumajirō slowly inquired about an unclear point.

“However, regarding the two groans heard in the chapel’s darkness—I believe there must be something that determines whether it was Nobuko or Hatatarō.”

“It’s merely a matter of dead points and focal points—in other words, a simple problem of acoustics.” “Mrs. Krivov’s position was likely the dead point for the groan Nobuko produced with the pedal.” “As for the resonance from the friction between Hatatarō’s bow and strings, that focal point must have been where even faint whispers could be discerned.” “And when Mrs. Krivov moved toward Nobuko, she stabbed her through from behind.” “Now, Shikura, I don’t think there’s anything left to discuss, but what truly stirs my pity is that dim-witted Ekisuke—manipulated by Nobuko into wearing ceremonial sandals and even donning full armor.” Having said that, Hōsui began methodically recounting Nobuko’s actions from the very beginning. Of course, this also revealed that administering pilocarpine had been nothing more than a maliciously cunning staged farce. Then, after concluding his account, Hōsui shifted his discourse and finally addressed the most perplexing enigma at the core of the Kuroshikan Murder Case—Nobuko’s murder motive, which had remained utterly impossible to discern despite exhaustive contemplation. That was a wordless reality. When Hōsui pulled from his coat pocket what had been extracted from the torso of Rodin’s “The Kiss,” the two men’s eyes became riveted on that single point—the photographic plate. And when they pieced together several fragments, the following full text appeared upon it.

1. Da... Be... Arsenic ore’s... 1. Kawanabe... Risk of thymus death...

(The articles on constitutional anomalies were limited to those two; those preceding them remained unknown.) 1. I could not bear to sacrifice my own child... and thus replaced the female infant at birth with a male, who upon reaching maturity became my secretary—Kamiya Nobuko. Thus, Hatatarō has no connection whatsoever to the bloodline.

Thus, after accumulating layer upon layer of tangled complications, the Kuroshikan Murder Case finally reached its culmination in the final curtain call, exposing Kamiya Nobuko as Dr. Sanzō’s biological child. Thus, Sanzō’s agonizing death was none other than Nobuko’s act of patricide, and the phrase "Father, I too am your child" could only signify a will for vengeance taken to its most profound extreme. However, though this photographic plate represented the flower of Hōsui’s ideal vision—a half-leaf of the corpse diagram—in the end, only a portion of it remained extant. The rest had either been reduced to dust when dropped or perhaps destroyed by Nobuko herself. Regardless, the clarification of constitutional anomalies beyond those two individuals had to be consigned to eternal mystery. Eventually, the prosecutor asked with a face as if waking from a dream.

"Of course—though she was rightfully the head of the household, there was nothing left to be done now. That very reason made Nobuko the mother of such cruel desires." "I can well understand the cause of that bloodthirsty tendency." "But with each crime, she created an eerie beauty and grandeur that could only be thought to transcend the human world—" “Mr. Hōsui, kindly explain that from a psychological perspective.” “In a word, it’s ludic emotion—a form of physiological catharsis.” "For humankind—as something to fill suppressed emotions and parched sentiments—a certain physiological catharsis is required." “Now Shikura, even Zaberix—called the young Faust, a sorcerer who wandered through sixteenth-century Germany—and Bishop Faustinus of Dietz are said to have succumbed to spiritualism…” "When people exhaust their strength and lose means of retaliation, does not spiritualism become that which alleviates their passions?" “Moreover, among the techniques that birthed that world of grotesque perversion, one discerns influences from works in the library—Guido Bonatto’s *Compendium of Ignition Arts* (that thirteenth-century Italian magician called Faust) and Vasari’s *Master of Festivals and Carnival Machinery*, would you not agree?” "Originally, Nobuko likely stole that photographic plate on a mere mischievous whim." "Yet when she learned its contents, Nobuko must have felt moonlight—magical and tremendous." The sudden onslaught—death-grief-fate—converged cruciform, shattering one side of opposition that had maintained her mental equilibrium. And that drove forth destructive sacred madness, unleashing an explosion grotesque beyond measure. “Yet I would never call Nobuko a moral degenerate.” “That is Browning’s ‘child of fate’—this incident is undeniably a living human poem.” Having said this, Hōsui turned his lucidly intelligent gaze toward the prosecutor. “Now Shikura—let us at least adorn Nobuko’s final send-off in manner befitting the last of this sacred family.”

And thus, the coffin of Kamiya Nobuko—last of the sacred Furuyatsuki family, descendant of the bewitching queen Bianca Cappello, scion of the Medici bloodline—was draped with the civic banner of Florence and borne upon the shoulders of four monks clad in hemp cloth. And then, amidst the surging chorus and swirling incense smoke, it was carried toward the mausoleum in the back garden—curtain.