Solomon was extremely pleased, even if someone was pointing fingers at him and questioning him. He liked clever people, and this candidate's sharp observational skills and logical reasoning demonstrated the kind of intelligence a rational human ought to have. Compared to Stephen Strange, he preferred this man—Sherlock Holmes. He was calm, rational, and seemingly devoid of religious faith (probably). As for his antisocial tendencies, Solomon had been described that way himself before, so it didn't bother him much. But before the final test concluded, he couldn't show favoritism. Both candidates had to undergo their trials.
"That's a bit far-fetched, Mr. Holmes," he replied. "Couldn't it be that I went to the café downstairs to ask the owner about you and waited for your return at the same time? I don't think my financial status has anything to do with Eleanor. We haven't been in contact for ages, and frankly, I didn't care much. But she was still a relative, and I couldn't just let her lie in the morgue. This isn't about affection—it's about responsibility."
"He has a point, Sherlock," Watson said, easing up and stepping to Solomon's side. "Maybe you've had a strange case today, but that doesn't mean everyone is suspicious."
"I don't make guesses. But fair enough. Let's hear what you've got to say," Sherlock Holmes nodded, seemingly accepting Solomon's explanation without fuss. This surprised Watson—his flatmate was notoriously stubborn. Why so compliant this time?
Solomon decided he had to be more careful. He would find time to return to the crime scene and see if anything there might cause Holmes to link the case back to him. As for the Scotland Yard officers guarding the site, Solomon could guarantee they'd neither see nor hear a thing. No one would discover the little "gift" he had left for the candidate before Holmes did.
The detective's questions were mainly about the victim's family ties, social circles, and past. Solomon had done his homework, and his memory allowed him to respond fluidly. For questions not covered in official records—or those that were too personal—he refrained from embellishing and simply replied honestly that he didn't know, that someone had once mentioned such-and-such to him.
Thirty minutes later, Mrs. Hudson finally saw the tall, strong visitor stepping lightly down the stairs—more like a tiger than a man. Watson followed behind, and they were whispering about something. The landlady, who had been anxiously waiting by the stairwell for signs of argument, finally relaxed. As Solomon stepped carefully on the old wooden steps, he turned to Watson and said, "But I really can't offer more clues. I didn't know much about her life. The police probably know far more than I do. I only heard that the cause of death was strange. In any case, all the mysteries should be unraveled by him. Ah, Mrs. Hudson. I swear, there isn't better tea in all of London than yours."
"Thank you, dear. Such a sweet boy," the elderly landlady beamed, her wrinkled face lighting up. "You're much more polite than that annoying fellow upstairs. Don't give me that look, Watson—you really should talk some sense into him. Someone said they heard gunshots from his room last night. What do you think the neighbors will say about that!"
"I'm sure Mr. Holmes had his reasons," Solomon replied politely. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Watson—I've already booked a room, so there's no need to trouble yourself further. Thank you for the tea and the lovely biscuits, Mrs. Hudson. I'll definitely visit again."
"See? Now that's a proper young man," Mrs. Hudson said pointedly after Solomon left, looking straight at the exasperated Watson. "When will Holmes ever learn to behave like that boy?"
"He's suspicious," said Sherlock Holmes.
When Watson returned to the sitting room, he found the detective curled up in his armchair, eyes fixed on the seat where their guest had been. He held his phone tightly. "I didn't mention all the red flags," he said. "I suspect his close-combat abilities are far greater than ours—and my pistol wasn't even loaded."
"Because you fired all the bullets yesterday."
"Mrs. Hudson must've told you that. But your old cane is still in the umbrella stand, and I believe he was closer to it than either of us. In short, that client gives me a very strange feeling. It's not instinct—it's deduction. There's more going on here. He's hiding something."
"Do you remember which way his taxi went after he left?" Watson asked, eyes narrowing.
"You didn't notice, of course, so I arranged for someone to tail him. We'll know soon enough what's off about him."
Watson sat down opposite him, filled with questions. But every time he tried to speak, Holmes' intense gaze silenced him—it was clear the detective's mind was far away, wandering through the corridors of his memory palace. Suddenly, the phone in his hand rang, snapping him back to reality.
"Ha! Just as I suspected!"
"What is it?" Watson asked quickly.
"He vanished," Holmes said with a meaningful look.
"What do you mean, 'vanished'?" Watson's eyes widened. "What do you mean 'vanished'?"
"I mean he disappeared, Watson. He didn't check into a hotel. He went to a restaurant near the crime scene—and then vanished." Holmes was visibly excited, the kind of excitement that was contagious. He leapt from the chair and began pacing around the cramped living room. "I feel like I'm closing in on the mystery, Watson. I can already sense the shape of the truth—but it's still hidden behind a fog. I need to confirm it. Let's go!"
"Go where?" Watson barely had time to react before a coat and a loaded revolver were thrust into his arms. "This is my gun! How did you get it?"
The detective had no time for irrelevant questions.
"To the crime scene. I've been bound by logic—by my own imagination," Holmes muttered, narrowing his eyes and clenching his fists. Then, with bounding steps, he barreled down the stairs, each footfall a thunderous noise that made Mrs. Hudson rush out in her apron in alarm. But Holmes had no time for her mood—he had more important matters to attend to. "If we move quickly, we might still run into someone there."
Meanwhile, Solomon entered a small rented flat. The lights were off, and the only window was boarded up, allowing only faint, damp gray light to seep through the cracks. Dust motes drifted slowly in the fetid air.
He walked over to check on the "gift" he had left in the corner: a half-dead vampire. The wretched creature had fed on human blood—then Solomon had pinned it to a crucifix with silver stakes etched with banishing runes. Its lower body had been pulverized into a heap of ruined flesh. The vampire's regenerative abilities were suppressed by the silver, locking it in eternal agony.
It stared at Solomon in sheer terror. It couldn't scream—its tongue and throat had already been torn out.
The mage, more brutal than any vampire, ignored its horror. He inspected its physiological condition carefully, gauging whether the idiot would live long enough for the detective to uncover the truth.
Catching the vampire hadn't been difficult. This wasn't Solomon's first time. He found the fool in a bar bathroom. It was the one who had murdered poor Eleanor, the nightclub dancer. But Solomon hadn't killed it—not completely. He had turned it into a tool, a means of showing Holmes the wider, darker world that lay beyond the veil.
(End of Chapter)
[Unlock +20 Advanced Chapters on Patreon.com/Mutter]
[For every 100 Power Stones, 1 Bonus Chapter will be released]
[Thank you for reading!]