When Tunnadus received medical assistance, he kept insisting that the doctor clean his wound repeatedly because during the attack, the assailant punctured a bottle of corrosive liquid he had hidden around his waist. He endured the pain and shouted, "Doctor, you can't just bandage it like this. Otherwise, I'll die. Even though it's not visible now, my stomach will turn into a honeycomb in three days."
"How do I know if what you're saying is true? I haven't seen anything strange," the doctor replied.
"Damn it, because those things are my goods! I know what they can do... Do you understand...?" He continued to scream and soon passed out from the pain.
"I've never seen someone with a pierced abdomen make so much noise," the doctor remarked. "A venomous creature is still venomous."
"Do as he says," Jorgen said. "He is indeed a venomous creature, but he wouldn't lie about his own life."
Later, when Jorgen questioned Tunnadus, he insisted that he hadn't seen the appearance of the assailant. Although it didn't seem realistic, given his narrow and twisted personality, Jorgen also believed he wasn't lying.
"It was dark at the time, and the person was wearing a mask," Tunnadus explained. "Plus, my attention was all on that old man. Lord Jorgen, did the doctor really clean my wound carefully? It's really itchy, it seems like the medicine is starting to work. Oh well, it looks like I won't live long. I really hope to find the right person to help me make a will."
What Jorgen noticed was that the assailant's stab wasn't very deep; it only went as far as the muscle layer. If you were to say it was a failed attempt at murder, it would be quite an understatement. Moreover, since Tunnadus didn't fight back or resist, the assailant could have easily struck again. Although Abercrombie was present at the time, he clearly wasn't a figure significant enough to influence the situation.
"Lord Jorgen, aren't you going to arrest Abercrombie?" Tunnadus asked. "I'm sure he conspired with the scoundrel who injured me, leading me to that place. The old man took my anesthetics, and the other guy..."
"What about the other person?"
"Of course, he was there to kill me. I need to go through my records and think about who else has run up a tab and conspired with that old man. I'm telling you, you need to catch him soon, or he'll harm someone else..."
"Please don't try to tell me what to do," Jorgen responded.
Even though he said that, Jorgen's next step was indeed to apprehend Abercrombie. There were more than four witnesses who confirmed Tunnadus' story: Abercrombie had chased him, dropped a knife halfway, then searched something on Tunnadus, and hurriedly left the scene. The black market merchant claimed it was an anesthetic that the old man had been begging for a long time—reasonable enough.
After yesterday's conversation, Jorgen understood that persuading Dalia to leave now would be very difficult, and he had new ideas himself. The series of murders and injuries had put the entire town in danger. Until he was sure that Morticia and Althea could stay away from all this, Dalia couldn't leave. It was no longer just about their safety; it was also related to Dalia's inner anxiety. What happened to both of them ten years ago, and what was happening now, although not necessarily connected—according to Jorgen's perspective—were both parts of a deeper and broader whole. Their lives were like a glass bottle shattering on the ground, breaking into countless tiny fragments, which could flow into drains, sink into the soil, or vanish in flames, each becoming something completely different. To understand what he was seeking, the only way was to capture each fragment, even if it was impossible to reassemble them into the original form. So, Jorgen continued to deal with this series of cases. Whether they could be solved or not, if he could confirm that they had nothing to do with the events of ten years ago, it would be worthwhile.
Jorgen didn't understand what happened ten years ago. From the accounts of the two women about the orphanage and the attack, he had very little useful information and couldn't even confirm if it was related to MI7. According to Morticia, it seemed like a massive assault plan, and if it was just to find the lost three babies, it might not have been too reckless, unlike the old man's actions. In any case, one thing was certain: Dean had a connection with it, something that Jorgen didn't know about. Did the old man know about the existence of this other world? There was no way to be sure, but if he did, he couldn't take these secrets to the grave alone. Jorgen now believed this: the old man was indeed gradually entrusting what he knew to others, but at the moment, no one could grasp it all. He entrusted different legacies to different people, such as the dealings with Booty Bay and the compromise and cooperation with Benedictus, which were handed over to Joe—this was a secret known only to him and not to anyone else, including Eileen. Others held different parts.
If the attack on the orphanage ten years ago was indeed one of the old man's legacies, then someone must have inherited it.
Jorgen was convinced that Althea appearing before him and Dalia wasn't something "planned." It was an accident, a loophole. If Althea hadn't placed the venomous spider on her shoulder, if she hadn't escaped from the orphanage—no, there was no need to list these assumptions one by one. Since it had happened, they had to seize it. From this perspective, Jorgen believed that this trip to Darkshire was definitely worth it. They had witnessed a flaw in the old man's plan. They would never know what happened ten years ago, what babies were taken away, but it was like water stains evaporating into clouds, leaving no trace on the ground, and then becoming rain and wetting the once-existing surface. These facts reappeared purely by chance. Jorgen considered himself lucky to capture these accidents. In fact, if it weren't for various coincidences, he wouldn't have come this far. For many years, a force like a giant scalpel had been trying to manipulate everything about him and Dalia. They had to fight for every fragment at their feet if they wanted to win this war. To win this war, the only way was to understand and seize the accidents slipping through the fingers of this force.3
When Jorgen and his men arrived at the doorstep of Abercrombie's home, there was no sign of Pick. The ground where he usually lay was scattered with some coarse dog hair. The door was closed, a mere makeshift board to shield from the elements. From the side crack of the board, one could see a dimly lit corridor that seemed almost endless. It appeared to be a dilapidated shelter that one could circumnavigate in seconds from the outside, but peering into this corridor gave the illusion of a bottomless depth. Jorgen recalled how Abercrombie had turned back and said, "Elysa is calling me," even though Jorgen hadn't heard any sound.
He called out, "Abercrombie," and a hoarse response came from the dark depths, as if a crimson-legged centipede was crawling out of a muddy hole.
"Who is it?"
It was a woman's voice.
But before Jorgen could react, he heard Abercrombie inside the house saying, "It's for me, they're looking for me." The woman's voice sounded like a vague sob from a grave, difficult to make out what she was saying, and it quickly got drowned out by the old man's voice. After a series of unsteady footsteps, Abercrombie pushed open the board and stepped out of the house. When he saw the several Night Watchmen behind Jorgen, the nerves on his forehead twitched, as if the mud-caked eyeballs were emitting a dim light.
"Lord Jorgen, you're looking for me."
"Someone attacked Tunnadus, and there are witnesses who say you were present and took his medicine. I have to take you back for questioning."
"Oh." The old man wiped his fingertip on the edge of his robe, removing the mud. "Yes, that's true. I can come with you."
He opened his mouth, revealing an awkward smile, like sharp stones sliding on a beach, cutting a slit in the sand. Given his eccentric nature, Jorgen wasn't surprised that he admitted it so readily. He still remembered how he had stopped the carriage in the rain and begged Dalia for alms, the urgent feeling as if he were hurling his body onto the ground. But now, although he was still a bit nervous, overall, he felt quite relaxed. Jorgen had a vague sense that he had accomplished something significant, something he had referred to as his most important experiment.
"Lord Jorgen, let me go back to the house and talk to Elysa first. I also need to prepare some things for her. She's not very agile with her hands and feet. If I'm not there, it's inconvenient for her to live alone..."
"Hurry up," Jorgen said. In the few minutes it took Abercrombie to return to the house and then come back out, Jorgen was on the verge of ordering a search of the room. However, he wasn't looking for the old alchemist because he suspected him of murder; he had merely stolen something inconsequential from the black market merchant, forced into it as a result of pressure from the other party. If I order a search of his room just to find out what he's done, the phrase resurfaced in Jorgen's thoughts:
"You're slowly replacing him."
He couldn't forget Dalia's expression at that moment, nor did he want to hear that phrase again. The killer was undoubtedly not Abercrombie. There was no reason to search his house.
Abercrombie came out. "We can go now, Lord Jorgen." He glanced at Jorgen and then at the Night Watchmen, once again showing that awkward smile, as if waiting for someone to handcuff him.
"Follow me," Jorgen said.
As they descended the small hill, there was suddenly a sound behind them, something stepping on the sandy ground. Jorgen turned around and saw Pick. It was as hostile as ever, fur disheveled, but something was different. In the past, it had tried to appear fierce but couldn't hide the fatigue in its eyes. But now, its eyes had a mysterious gleam, like black stones encased in ice. It no longer emitted the hoarse howls from its throat but rather a low growl, as if crushing something under pressure.
"Oh, sorry. I'll chase it away," Abercrombie squeezed past the Night Watchmen and stood in front. "Go! Pick, go."
Pick didn't move, it just straightened its back slightly.
Abercrombie patted the edge of his robe, as if just realizing that he hadn't brought his dog-chasing stick. He bent over, picked up a stone, and shouted, "Get out of here!" Then he threw it.
The stone landed to the right of Pick's hind leg. It didn't appear to be frightened and slowly stood up.
"Don't follow us," Abercrombie said, "You beast."
It looked into the old man's eyes, shook its head, turned around, and slowly walked back up the slope. Its four legs landed firmly and then lifted, with dust flying up from where its claws had touched the ground.