Chapter 20: CASE 2. The Unfinished Dying Message (13)-Epilogue 2-

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It was late in the evening the day after the case was resolved when I met the client again.

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“Thank you. Thank you so much, Sir!”

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My client, Mr. Peterson, had already been informed of the entire progress of the case.

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“Thanks to you, the culprit was caught. Now that the case has been successfully closed, I was able to take custody of Allen’s body and his belongings. It is all thanks to you, Sir.”

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With his eyes brimming with tears, Mr. Peterson offered his gratitude to me over and over again.

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“Thank you truly, Detective Hayes. As I promised before, I will do my absolute best to repay this debt of gratitude.”

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If this had been an ordinary case, it would have ended here. After expressing a moderate amount of humility, I would have accepted the payment and sent the client on his way… but one thing weighed on my mind.

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“Mr. Peterson. Now that the culprit has been caught, what do you plan to do?”

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“I must hold Allen’s funeral.”

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“And after that?”

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“···What is it that you wish to ask?”

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I asked him point-blank.

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“Mr. Peterson. Are you perhaps thinking of harming the culprit yourself?”

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A brief silence followed.

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Soon, Mr. Peterson let out a faint smile.

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“···You truly are a detective. I cannot hide anything from you.”

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‘As I thought···.’

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My concern had become a reality.

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“Please, do not do it.”

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It wasn’t that I was worried about the well-being of that disgusting culprit at this point. I was worried about my client.

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“The culprit no longer has any backers to protect him. Since he has been so publicly revealed as the criminal, the school’s patrons will not try to shield him, and even his own family won’t step forward actively to save an illegitimate son.”

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It was quite a bitter reality, but for now, it was for the best.

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“The culprit will face harsh punishment according to the law. Perhaps even the death penalty will be sought. There is no need for you to dirty your own hands, Mr. Peterson.”

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“But then, what on earth am I supposed to do!”

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Mr. Peterson cried out in indignation.

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“I have believed from the start that Allen died because of me! He died because I needlessly sent him to a school full of those stuck-up nobles! And as it turns out, that was indeed the case. No, it was even worse than that!”

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‘Even worse? What on earth does that···.’

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“Detective Hayes. I provided Allen with an etiquette teacher. That teacher was appalled when he saw Allen licking his finger to turn the pages of a book. He barked at him to fix it immediately. But do you know why Allen, who was good at everything else, could never fix that habit of licking his finger until the very end?”

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Of course, I didn’t know, but based on the context of the conversation···.

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“It was because of me.”

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‘Just as I expected.’

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Mr. Peterson raised his trembling hand and showed it to me.

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His hand was not as hideous as the culprit’s. However, the joints were bulging and lumpy, and there were many small scars.

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Every knuckle was covered in yellow calluses, and the tips of the joints looked dry with white flaky skin.

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Mr. Peterson possessed enough vast wealth that he no longer needed to perform manual labor, but his hands were still the rough, crude hands of a laborer.

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“Allen and I do not share the same blood, but the shape of these hands is just like a biological child’s. It is because both of us were plagued by all sorts of labor since we were young.”

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His voice was full of regret.

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“The fingerprints on the fingers are all worn away, and there isn’t a single spot where a callus hasn’t formed. No matter where you touch the hand, there is no place that isn’t hard. These crude hands are meant for labor. They are not suitable for turning the pages of a book.”

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To them, hands were not sensory organs, but tools for labor. Labor is synonymous with pain. To endure pain, one had to become numb.

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Hands covered in calluses could not even distinguish whether the teacup they were holding was hot or cold. Even if they were pricked by a sharp corner, they would remain indifferent.

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It would be fine even if poison touched the hand. Rashes wouldn’t form on dead cells, nor would they feel any itchiness.

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These hands were very useful tools, but one cannot read a book with a tool.

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The paper of this era was very thin and flimsy compared to modern paper. With worn hands, it wasn’t easy to turn even a single page.

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The sheets of paper would not be caught by fingers that lacked even a single fingerprint; if one tried to turn them with force, multiple pages would turn together, or they would simply tear apart.

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That is, unless one licked their finger.

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“These hands are a symbol of poverty. Watching Allen get scolded by the etiquette teacher because he had such hands, I was the one who got angry instead. It’s his own business if he soils his own books, is it not? Since I have plenty of money, Allen would never need to turn someone else’s book for the rest of his life. So, I shouted for them to leave the child alone so he could keep the same habit as mine.”

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And then Allen died.

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Because of that habit born from wretched poverty.

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“It’s my fault! It was all my fault.”

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Mr. Peterson said, sobbing.

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“I caused Allen’s death, and I couldn’t even catch the culprit who killed him. If I don’t at least get revenge, I won’t have the dignity to face that boy after I die···.”

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I understood his feelings, standing there on the edge of a cliff.

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However, I couldn’t let him fall like this.

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“To say you didn’t play a part in catching the culprit, Mr. Peterson. That is not true.”

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“Of course, I did hire you, Detective, but with just that alone—.”

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“No. That’s not the kind of story I’m trying to tell.”

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Would this story be of help to him? I didn’t know.

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However, hoping that the small fact I discovered would provide him with even a little bit of comfort, I spoke.

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“While investigating the poison that Mr. Allen was subjected to, I learned this fact belatedly. Those who die from coniine remain relatively clear-headed until the very end.”

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Thus, the philosopher who suffered from the same poison was able to leave a last will at the final moment.

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The victim, Allen Hessington, was the same.

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“What did you say? Are you saying Allen left something behind?”

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Instead of answering those words immediately, I turned the story back a bit to the past.

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“My assistant, you see. He is quite fearless. That night when we found the real notebook the victim left behind, Ruhr rubbed the pages of that notebook with his bare hands.”

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I was foolish for not stopping him, but at that time, I never imagined that poison would be smeared on the notebook.

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“However, while rubbing the large ink blot left on the last page, Ruhr said he felt a strange sensation.”

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It was what Ruhr told me as soon as he escaped the panic of being poisoned.

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“He said he felt indentations. As if someone had written words with a sharp pen nib.”

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“···!”

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“Yes. Mr. Allen was writing something down in his final moments.”

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And yet, as he died and the pressure was released, ink had burst from the quill pen and completely covered the small writing he had left behind.

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“If that’s the case, are you saying there was a real dying message?”

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Mr. Peterson jumped to his feet and shouted.

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“Not the dying message fabricated by the culprit, not just the traces of him dying while organizing his lesson notes, but a real dying message?!”

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“No. It wasn’t a dying message.”

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The purpose of a dying message is to accuse the culprit. If it was left for another purpose, then it isn’t a dying message, but a last testament.

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“I held the notebook up to the light. When I did, I saw a word hidden by the blot.”

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[Pledge]

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A word carrying the meaning of a vow, or a promise.

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‘What could this mean?’

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I pondered. It probably wasn’t referring to the promise to lend the notebook to the culprit.

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Because this word was far too heavy for that.

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From here on, it is strictly within the realm of speculation, but in my opinion···.

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“I thought it might have referred to his pledge to you.”

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I remembered the story of the first meeting with the victim that the client had excitedly shared.

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[He looked me straight in the eye and spoke. He said that if I invested in him, it would be the most successful investment I had ever made. He said he would promise to make it so. Haha, wasn’t he quite the cheeky lad?]

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The memory of that day was shining vividly within Mr. Peterson. A memory is usually something precious to both parties involved.

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“The moment Mr. Allen realized his own death, he must have thought of that vow.”

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Did the victim know he was dying from poison? Well, probably not.

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He likely only knew that he suddenly couldn’t breathe and was about to face an abrupt death.

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In that moment, the faces of his family must have surely come to mind.

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“Perhaps he wanted to say, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my pledge’?”

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“Ah, ahhh···!”

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Mr. Peterson sobbed.

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“Mr. Allen must have desperately tried to write out his final words until the very end.”

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That quill pen was the evidence.

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Until the moment he died, he did not let go of the quill.

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“The pen he gripped tightly until the end with a body losing its strength. It was ultimately that pen that caught the culprit’s tail.”

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If that quill hadn’t been held in the victim’s hand, everything would have been different.

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The culprit wouldn’t have felt the need to leave a fake dying message, and it would have been difficult to link the victim’s death with the mystery gift.

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In the end, without even finding evidence that the victim had been murdered, everything would have gone according to the culprit’s wishes.

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“What was hidden by that black blot was his heart for you.”

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The feelings, or perhaps the lingering regrets, the victim held for the client.

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“It was those feelings that ultimately drove the culprit into a corner.”

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Therefore, Mr. Peterson didn’t need to blame himself.

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If it hadn’t been for the heart he gave to the victim, and the heart he received in return, this case would not have been solved.

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Furthermore—.

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“To Mr. Allen, you were the precious person who came to mind in his final moment. Therefore, in that moment, Mr. Allen surely would have wished for your happiness. Please, do not turn away from Mr. Allen’s wishes by dirtying your hands and casting yourself into hell.”

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“······.”

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A long silence followed. I waited for his reaction with the heart of a prisoner awaiting a verdict.

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‘Please···.’

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Finally, he lifted his head and murmured feebly.

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“Everything you said is correct, Detective.”

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“···!”

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“Except for just one thing.”

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“···What is that?”

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“Allen, that boy, was a very smart child.”

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Mr. Peterson said as transparent tears poured out of him.

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“So, he surely would have tried to write ‘I kept my pledge.’ Because he was the most successful investment of my life. Truly, truly. I don’t know how happy I was to be that boy’s guardian.”

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“…….”

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“I had been lonely all my life, but since meeting that boy, every day was a joy. Since he was smart, he surely must have known. He must have known just how much happiness he brought to me.”

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“…Yes. Surely he did.”

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I kept my pledge. You were happy because you met me, and I was happy because I met you.

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I nodded my head repeatedly, thinking that he surely must have tried to write it that way.