Pools of blood had congealed on the ground, making the stark, pale corpse appear exceptionally jarring.
Even in the dim light, one could still see that the deceased lady possessed intoxicatingly snowy skin, pristine blonde hair without a single stray strand, slender limbs, a full bosom, and exquisite features that put the streetwalkers of the Lower District to shame.
Yet, this beautiful vessel had been flayed open from the chest down. A gaping maw extended all the way to her lower abdomen; the flesh was peeled back, revealing a hollowed-out chest cavity. Her limbs were also marred by shocking, jagged trauma.
Sherlock simply watched... He didn't step closer to observe, nor did he utter a word.
Full twenty seconds passed...
Executor Balder's towering brow ridge furrowed slightly. The security officer beside him even began to wonder if this guy had been scared witless by the gruesome scene.
Just then, Sherlock finally stirred. With an utter lack of decorum, he flicked his finished cigarette butt directly into the knee joint gap of the steam armor beside him.
"Where are the clothes?" he asked abruptly.
"W... What?"
"The deceased's clothes." Sherlock looked around again. "I don't see the victim's clothing."
"This..." The officer hesitated.
"The crime scene hasn't been touched by anyone. There were no clothes to begin with; the killer likely took them..." Catherine had walked over at some point. As she answered, she exchanged an expressionless glance with Sherlock. "The duty of these officers is merely to secure the perimeter. They know nothing of the details. If you have questions, ask me."
Sherlock displayed a rare moment of gentlemanly grace. "My thanks, beautiful lady."
"Do not thank me. I detest you. I only hope you find the killer quickly," she said, making no attempt to hide the coldness in her tone. "I pray your competence is not as wretched as your character..."
Perhaps the class divide was too vast; Catherine felt no need to conceal her dislike for the detective before her. But equally, because that gap was so wide, she did not make things difficult for him merely out of personal distaste.
This commoner was not yet qualified to be "made difficult" by a Judgment Nun.
So, with dismissal yet utmost seriousness, she relayed every clue she had gathered.
As for Sherlock, he naturally felt no resentment. He wasn't stupid, nor was he like the officer behind him, yearning for some cross-class interaction.
He knew what he was there to do. He also knew that he had only come to see if this case involving the Holy See could offer him some novelty...
Of course, since the Holy See had chosen him, he had to come whether he wanted to or not.
In short, he listened calmly to Catherine's briefing.
One spoke, one listened. In this moment, the man and woman, separated by a chasm of status, displayed a strange kind of tacit understanding.
A few minutes later...
Sherlock finally frowned awkwardly. "So... you've essentially discovered absolutely nothing."
Catherine remained expressionless. "As I told you, the fewer people who know about this, the better. If we wanted to deploy the Inquisition's specialists, why would we fetch a private detective like you?"
"Fair point." Sherlock didn't seem annoyed in the slightest. Instead, he flashed a brilliant smile and walked alone into the alley.
Catherine and Balder exchanged a look and slowly followed. As for the small High Priest, he had stood motionless like a statue since getting off the carriage. If one were to get close, they might even hear a faint snoring.
In the alley, the figures of the group fragmented the gaslight into broken patches of shadow.
Sherlock stepped over the muddy bloodstains, bent down, and casually picked up a piece of minced flesh. He squinted at it in the dim light.
"A slice of liver. To cut such brittle tissue so neatly... the killer's craftsmanship is quite decent."
He wasn't speaking to anyone in particular; it was just his habitual muttering.
"A piece of the manubrium, still attached to two ribs. The cross-section is equally precise." He picked up a bone. "This kind of anatomical dismemberment couldn't have been done quickly. Judging by the coagulation of the blood, the time of death was around 5:00 AM today... By the way, why does the killer suddenly have such an obsession with the number 'four'?"
"Four?" Catherine asked, puzzled.
"Yes. This fellow cut almost everything that could be cut into four pieces." As he spoke, he picked up several more chunks of flesh and deftly pieced together a whole lung lobe, placing it back into the corpse's open chest cavity.
"What are you... doing?" Executor Balder, who had been silent, finally spoke. His voice wasn't loud, nor did it sound disgusted, but that scarlet sash exuded a weird, immense oppression.
Most Executors of the Adjudication Division were Contractors, specifically those who had reached the Second Stage. Only those with powerful strength could handle such cruel and dangerous tasks.
However, Sherlock wasn't flustered by this pressure. His hands didn't stop for a second.
"Apologies, Mr. Balder. I know this is somewhat disrespectful to your wife, but the killer seems to have left us a clue... Look here..."
He pointed rapidly at a section of intestine he had just coiled back into place. "A very shallow cut, running top to bottom... After disemboweling her, the killer didn't rush to mince the organs. Instead, he carved some marks onto the viscera."
In just a few sentences, Sherlock had mostly reassembled the scattered, minced organs on the ground.
The security officer watched from the alley entrance, wanting to speak several times but stopping.
An uncomfortable thought gnawed at him: A normal person, even a doctor, couldn't possibly piece together minced organs so proficiently.
Does this Lower City detective chop up guts so often that practice makes perfect?
"Done..."
Two minutes later, Sherlock had arranged the remaining pieces.
And there, amidst the fragmented, jagged viscera, one could faintly see knife marks.
"YES?"
Executor Balder's vision was clearly superior to that of ordinary men. In such gloom, he instantly recognized the bloody letters carved across the pieced-together organs—
YES.