Jorgen read the second threat letter. Elro stood by the desk, hands resting on it, his gaze fixed on Jorgen, as if waiting for some kind of judgment from him. The administrator who had found the letters was standing to the right.
"You've ignored my warning, and Bower's death is the consequence. This isn't over. The only way to stop it is to get rid of the hounds of the MI7."
The second letter was also made up of letters cut out from printed material.
"Jorgen, what's your take on this?" Elro asked.
"The intent is clearer than the first letter," Jorgen said, "but it still doesn't admit to being the murderer. Furthermore, the emphasis on Bower's death makes it less believable. If the goal is to get rid of the MI7, then killing Bower is a counterproductive action."
"How do you mean?"
"There are too many contradictions. Firstly, by killing Bower, the ones directly affected are the Night Watch and the town of Darkshire itself. If the aim is to demonstrate the ability to threaten the MI7, why not target the people at the Crow's Blood Inn, such as the guards I arranged to patrol around? They are more obvious targets and would pose a more significant threat to us. Moreover, the emphasis on 'getting rid of the MI7' suggests the goal is to protect Darkshire. This contradicts the act of killing Bower. In general, three interpretations remain: one, what needs protection is not Darkshire itself but something coincidentally in Darkshire, and our presence threatens it; two, the target includes both Darkshire and the MI7; and the last one..."
This letter was turning into a whole farce. While Elro and the others waited anxiously, Jorgen didn't voice this selective conclusion.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the first letter, placing it side by side with the second on the table.
"It's the same font," he said. "Different from regular documents and books."
"Where have you seen this font?" Elro asked, quicker than Jorgen.
"Staven's... poetry collection," the administrator replied.
"Are you sure?" Jorgen asked.
"When those poetry collections were delivered to the estate, I helped out and took a look. I also heard the delivery person say at the time that these hardcover books were quite expensive because even the font was chosen in a style with high printing costs. But that was quite some time ago, so I can't guarantee if I remember correctly."
"Has anyone in town bought his books?" Jorgen inquired.
"I've never heard of anyone buying them. He doesn't seem to have any intention to sell..."
Even if Elro hadn't answered the question, Jorgen could imagine that in this town, owning Staven's poetry collection was akin to self-inflicted humiliation. It had nothing to do with the quality of the poems but was entirely related to Staven's status in the town.
"Jorgen, I know this doesn't necessarily mean Staven is the one who wrote the letters, but he should be somewhat related to this, shouldn't he?" Elro asked.
Elro held his breath, his eyes wide, waiting for Jorgen's input.
Jorgen didn't actually want to go down this path. Using the same font to determine the author of the threat letters was a stretch. It was a tenuous connection, especially without a credible motive and no organic link to Bower's death. It was like trying to grasp a floating pebble on a lake's surface: even if you caught it, you'd still drown. If you knew how to swim, you didn't need the pebble in the first place.
But now he had little choice. While determining the author through font consistency sounded just as absurd as finding the killer from a black market merchant's client list, it was a step that could be taken immediately.
Moreover, Jorgen had to react. The two threat letters subtly implied provocation between Darkshire and the MI7. They hinted that Darkshire should use its own force to drive away these outsiders. Although Elro always followed his lead, trying to create the impression that they were in the same trench, which was the wiser course.
"Either way, we need to confirm this," Jorgen said. "Is Joseph around?"
"He's patrolling outside the town today. If you need the night watch, just give the order," the administrator replied.
"I need my guards to stay at the Crow's Inn, so I'll need to borrow some of your men. Also, it's school time right now. I'd rather not disturb the town's children."
"That's okay," the administrator said. "Today, they're having math and art classes. None of Staven's classes. When he's not teaching, he usually stays in his own room."
"Good. Mayor, I'll need ten... no, fifteen people. Even though I don't believe Staven is capable of resisting, we must avoid him escaping. Depending on the situation, we'll decide whether to search his house. Just gather the night watchmen who are resting. I don't want this to affect the overall security of the town. Let them all assemble in this room."
"Jorgen, if I was wrong about the font thing, you won't punish me, will you...?"
"I won't. But remember, don't reveal the existence of the second letter to anyone, and don't mention the arrest of Staven. Mayor, I'm afraid you'll have to do the same."
Staven lived in a small cabin on the side of the house, which he referred to as the "former storeroom." Not far to the west was the room where his poetry collection was stored, and about twenty yards ahead was the children's classroom. Jorgen, accompanied by two night watchmen, ordered the rest to guard the estate's perimeter and then approached Staven's cabin.
No one answered the knock, but Jorgen could hear the rustling of clothing. Finding the door unlocked, he pushed it open and entered.
The room had a musty smell, with a pile of life's detritus accumulating in one corner. Staven sat at the desk, his back to the door, hands clutching the back of his head, and a pen clutched between his right index and middle fingers. His shoulders trembled slightly.
"Staven," Jorgen called.
No response.
After taking a few steps closer, Staven suddenly turned around, the chair's legs scraping sharply against the floor. His eyes displayed surprise and confusion, his face bearing an exhaustion.
"How did you get in?" he asked.
"The door wasn't locked."
"No, I'm sure I locked it. But you still opened my door..." Staven's voice gradually faded as he turned back to bury his head in his desk, returning to his previous posture with both hands resting on the back of his head. "You interrupted my train of thought," he said. "Whatever it is, please wait there quietly, don't make a sound. Should I use 'magnificent' or 'solemn' in this sentence...? Let me think..."
"I want you to open the door to your poetry collection."
Staven mumbled to himself for a while, then pounded the table suddenly with his left hand. "I told you to wait there."
Jorgen signaled the two night watchmen to approach and grabbed Staven, pressing him onto the table. He made no attempt to resist.
"Whatever you want to do," he said, "can you wait until I finish this sentence?"
"Don't you want to know why we're looking for you?"
"What's the use of knowing," he said. "You... are entitled to do whatever you want. You said you wanted to open which door?"
"Your poetry collection room. Someone might have used your work for something illegal, and I have to investigate. Do you have a key?"
"Don't touch my work. You've already disrupted my creativity, and now you want to ruin those books? They're all mine. They're the most important things to me. If you want to take them, pay for them. It's what I deserve."
Jorgen noticed something coppery glowing in the right pocket seam of Staven's pants and instructed the night watchman to take it out. It was a key.
"Is this the key to open that door? If you don't want to say, that's fine. I can try it myself. Listen carefully, I know those thousands of books mean a lot to you, and you want them to be treated with respect. That's why I didn't break in directly but came here to ask for the key. Since you're being uncooperative... Hey, you, the one on the right, hand me the key."
Jorgen's original reason for not breaking into the room was to handle the situation as discreetly as possible, keeping it hidden from as many people as possible. If all the children in the nearby town were to find out about this, there would be no secrecy left.
At this moment, Staven suddenly snatched the key back from the night watchman and swallowed it. This action almost made one of the night watchmen release their grip out of surprise.
"They're my property," he said. "You can't just barge in and destroy everything like this. I'm very certain you will do that. Pay me, thirty-five silver coins per book. Only then can you have them."
Jorgen didn't know how to respond. This was a situation he hadn't anticipated at all. Since entering Darkshire Town, he had witnessed all sorts of madness, but he never expected Staven, who was almost a laughingstock, someone with almost no capacity to harm anyone, to be this extreme.
"Jorgen, sir," one of the night watchmen pointed to a small bookshelf on the right side of the table. "There's one in there."
"Take it out for me."
The man pulled out a slightly aged, indigo hardcover book titled "Selected Poems by Staven." Staven tried to grab it back, but this time, another prepared night watchman immediately pressed his hands and cheeks firmly against the table, rendering him motionless and unable to speak.
Jorgen took the book, and on the leather-bound spine was the title "Selected Poems by Staven." The protective page before the main text had Staven's signature. Jorgen randomly flipped open a page and compared the lettering style with the threatening letters. Then, he placed the letters inside the book and told the night watchmen, "Take him away."
"Give it back to me, my work..." Staven didn't finish his sentence because a night watchman stuffed a cloth into his mouth. Then, he was made to wear a hood to conceal his face, preventing anyone from recognizing him before he was brought to the detention center. This was a task requirement Jorgen had specified in advance. He left three night watchmen behind to search Staven's study – which also served as a bedroom and kitchen – and proceeded to the detention center with the remaining personnel.
Before leaving the room, Staven wriggled his frail body violently, like a fly struggling in a spider's web, its wings flapping frantically in the air. It didn't seem like an attempt for freedom, not the kind of craziness exhibited through facial expressions, not the kind that spat obscenities and self-degradation, but an inner madness, a rationality veiled beneath chaos – the same madness he had felt in Bower, Abercrombie, and Tunnadus.
"We won't search the room where you keep your poetry collection," Jorgen said. Hearing these words, Staven gradually calmed down. Prior to this operation, Jorgen had felt somewhat uneasy about taking such actions against someone without concrete evidence of wrongdoing. However, for some reason, he now felt no ounce of guilt about Staven, shrouded in darkness.