GosickS - Volume 2

Villagers were gathering in the old stone cathedral.

Petite but muscular youths were holding down Derek. The villagers stayed a short distance away, looking down at the man with glassy, creepy eyes.

The cathedral was cold and damp. Pale light from the moon shimmering in the twilit sky spilled from the rose window onto the stone floor.

Large torches still burned at the now-empty square, the crackling of their flames rolling all the way inside the building.

Footsteps sounded. The massive, wooden door opened.

Sergius appeared, accompanied by Ambrose. The village chief’s footsteps echoed loudly on the tiled floor.

Inspector Blois, who had also appeared out of nowhere, strode toward Derek, acting like he caught the thief.

“I’ll hear what you have to say back in town,” he said. “You are under arrest. Get up.”

“Wait a minute, Inspector,” Sergius said in a raspy, but steely voice.

The inspector looked at the old man. His face was dyed orange from the small torch that Ambrose was holding. The flames flickered in his eyes.

“I need to hear his explanation.”

The inspector quickly stepped back and gestured something at Kazuya.

Kazuya gave the inspector a disapproving look, then turned to Victorique. She was crouched on the petal-strewn floor, holding the old bronze vase that Derek was trying to steal with both arms, studying it intently. She looked like a little cat playing with a new toy. Even Ambrose felt hesitant to disturb her. But he steeled himself.

“Um, Miss Victorique,” Ambrose called. “You said you’d solve the case.”

Victorique lifted her head and looked at Kazuya. “Kujou, you explain.”

Kazuya was silent, confused.

Victorique seemed surprised. “Kujou, you…”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’m a mediocre egghead. So you verbalize it.”

Finally, Victorique let go of the vase and rose to her feet.

She stepped into the middle of the circle and glanced around. The villagers flinched and took half a step back. Only three people weren’t intimated by her: the village chief Sergius, his assistant Ambrose standing beside him, and the maid Harminia.

“Alan burning to death after switching places with the papier-mâché, and Raoul being mistaken for a wolf and shot were both Derek’s doing,” she began.

“How did he do it?” Ambrose asked. “Before the incident, we all saw Mr. Alan pass by the square and retreat when he got pelted by the hazelnuts. After the battle of the Summer Army and the Winter Army, I set fire to the papier-mâché myself. There was no time for any switching.”

“The papier-mâché was replaced with Alan long before that. In the morning, when the square was empty. Ambrose, you briefed us about the festival at dawn. After that, the square was deserted for a time. During that window, Derek knocked Alan out cold, wrapped him in a cloth, and switched him with the papier-mâché.”

“But—”

“It wasn’t Alan you spotted. We saw him from a distance. Alan and Derek have similar builds and all three of them dressed alike. Derek disguised himself with Alan’s signature beard, glasses, and hat to make it look like Alan was passing by.”

Derek looked up. “You have no proof.”

“Raoul is tall. It’s impossible for him to disguise himself as Alan. But Derek, you’re about the same size as him.”

“But…”

“One more thing.” Victorique showed what she was holding in her hand.

A hazelnut.

Staring at Victorique, Derek looked puzzled, not sure what she was getting at, but then his pale face turned reddish-black with rage and then despair.

“Damn it… God damn it!”

“It fell from your body. If you weren’t disguised as Alan, where and how did the hazelnut get into your clothes?”

Derek did not answer.

Mildred, standing behind the villagers, jumped out, her crimson curly hair bobbing. She pinned Derek down and pulled the cuffs of his trousers.

Another hazelnut rolled out.

The damp and dark cathedral was wrapped in a chilling silence. Torchlight streaming through the stained glass windows cast a sinister orange glow on the faces of Victorique and the villagers.

Victorique broke the silence. “There was a hazelnut near Raoul’s body. That means you were there, Derek.”

Sergius raised his head and shook it, perplexed.

“In short, Derek lured Raoul into the woods beforehand and shot him. Because of the whips, drums, and blanks fired during the festival, no one cared about a shot fired in the distance. He then waited for the right timing when Sergius walked past or looked out the window to throw a stone into the woods to make a sound. Sergius assumed it was a wild wolf and fired into the forest. Derek then appeared and said that Raoul was in the woods and that he heard a scream.”

“So…” Sergius murmured. “The one who killed that man…”

“Wasn’t you.”

“Good heavens!” Sergius’ golden-bearded face contorted. He was silent for a moment, casting his gaze to the skies, and in a whisper that no one could hear said, “I never imagined I would be saved by Cordelia’s daughter.”

Victorique did not respond. She just stared at Sergius with clenched teeth, as though holding something back from bursting.

“But what’s his motive?” Ambrose asked gingerly. “You said they were thieves, but he didn’t steal. He killed.”

“Infighting, most likely.”

Derek lifted his head. A bizarre smile was plastered on his face. “That’s right.”

“Was it a dispute regarding how to split the proceeds?”

“Of course not!” Derek snorted. “We wouldn’t fight over something like that.”

“Why, then?”

“I know what things are worth. So I steal to take care of them. I’m not hard-pressed for cash. But all Alan and Raoul wanted was money. They’d been using my own money to steal, but they planned to betray me. One night, I heard them talking about stealing the vase and getting away in my car. I wasn’t planning to sell the vase. I wanted to keep it at my place. But they planned to sell it to a collector for a large sum, and I was in the way…”

Derek glared at the villagers’ dark faces. The torch in Ambrose’s hand crackled. Orange flames shone on Derek’s enraged face, giving him an eerie look.

“You’re all just as guilty,” he snarled. “Prehistoric fools. You have no idea how much treasure is in this village. Hey, that maid over there. How could you use such wonderful medieval silverware for your meals? Same with you priests. I can’t believe you would leave a vase like that out in the open. The vase, the utensils, everything would be much happier if they were carefully kept by people who knew their true value!”

“I believe things are happy when they are used,” Ambrose said.

“What do you know?!” Derek snapped, then hung his head, sobbing.

The villagers’ thick silence pervaded the cathedral. The air became more humid, caressing the cheeks of everyone present, and the moon grew brighter, its light casting the rose window’s pattern on the floor.

“Take him away!” Sergius ordered. “I will decide what to do with him.”

Inspector Blois protested, but Sergius cut him off. “We have laws in this village. You will obey them while you’re here.”

“This village is within the Kingdom of Sauville. You must obey Sauville’s laws and its police.”

“This village is within Sauville, you say?”

Sergius threw his head back and guffawed. His laughter rose to the ceiling, the sparkling stained glass, and up the starry night sky. His glassy, green eyes took in Inspector Blois.

Inspector Blois backed away, as if fearing something invisible. There was something else there besides Sergius’ petite figure, something he couldn’t see. It was the very thing that the residents of the town at the foot of the mountain feared.

“This is not a village,” Sergius mumbled with a laugh.

“What?”

“You think this is Sauville? You know nothing, dear guest.”

The villagers had all left the cathedral, leaving only Sergius and Inspector Blois. Moonlight pouring down from the ceiling made the inspector’s face look even paler than usual. Petals scattered on the stone floor had wilted, as if something nonhuman—Gray wWolves—had sucked the life out of them.

Sergius continued laughing.

Doubt crossed Inspector Blois’s face as he stared at him. He thought the old man was crazy.

Sergius, on the other hand, looked delighted.

“This is the Kingdom of Saillune,” he muttered softly. “I am not the village chief. I’m the king. We are of different races to begin with. Do you understand?”