Everyone at the table was speechless; they just stared at Xerxes in disbelief.
The server nonchalantly nodded before running away with the huge order. Xerxes, satisfied, put the menu card back in its rightful place.
"I don't mean this in a bad way, but do you have the money to pay for all of this?" Alexa asked, putting the menu card down on the table.
"I can't cover you, Xerxes. I don't think I am rich enough in this dungeon of a world," Nova responded in a defeated voice.
"Don't worry. I have a lot of money," Xerxes said as he pulled out his well-worn leather billfold from his inner coat pocket, containing a few paper notes and silver coins. "This should be a lot, considering the era we are in, right?"
Kai glanced at the wallet. "That's two pounds and 22 shillings," he said, half asleep.
Alexa took the wallet from Xerxes's hand and counted the money. It was exactly as much as Kai had announced. "This is what I am talking about. How did he know how much was in here without even opening his eyes all the way?" she said, exasperated.
"It was just a guess," Kai replied, leaning against Xerxes's left shoulder.
"That's even worse," Alexa murmured.
"Is that a lot?" Nova pulled out his own wallet. He also had a few silver coins and one golden coin. "I also have about this much, though," he said, tilting his head in confusion.
"This should be enough for us to live comfortably for the time we are here," she replied, returning Xerxes's wallet.
"Let's go over the case now," Lucas said as he pulled out the stiff cardboard folder, which had a few tied papers in it, from his leather satchel. "Although there isn't much to it yet."
The case was reported by a man in his early 30s. His wife went out while he was sleeping. He woke up late that day because it was the weekend—his only day off from work. He waited for his wife to return the whole day, but she didn't. He decided to report her missing the next day after confirming with their relatives and friends that she wasn't with anyone else he knew. The officer who filed the report had a few sketches made of the woman named Elizabeth, described by her husband. A few artists sketched her based on the given description.
"These are the sketches," Lucas said, laying out three different drawings made by different people. They all resembled the same person: a woman with curly hair braided neatly at the back. She had a delicate appearance, fair skin, and a locket around her thin neck. Two of the sketches were portraits, while one was a full-body drawing. In the latter, she was wearing a modest, ankle-length floral dress.
"She has dark brown hair and light blue eyes," Lucas read from the report. "Height: about 165 cm."
Just then, the servers arrived with steaming hot dishes, which came one after another, each one smelling and looking appetizing enough to make them gulp and drool. They pushed the papers aside to make space on the table since there was a lot of food and began devouring everything like starved beasts, leaving not a speck behind. They even ordered three more roasted chickens. The server looked at them in amazement as he handed Xerxes the small piece of paper with the bill.
Xerxes held the bill nervously as he looked at the total. It was only seven shillings, surprisingly. He instantly took out seven silver coins for the bill and gave the server a tip of three shillings. The server looked at him, bewildered, as they left the restaurant. The server still couldn't believe it and missed his chance to thank Xerxes for the huge tip.
They had decided to meet with the man himself and interview the neighbors during the rest of the daylight hours they had. They hired an omnibus—a large four-wheeled carriage led by horses—for transportation to the location of the married couple's house. They only had to tell the coachman the location.
The gruff, seasoned man, wearing a thick coat and cap, was skilled at navigating the bustling streets. He immediately began heading toward Ravenwood Lane. The cobblestones beneath the wheels made a soft, irregular clinking sound, each movement sending up tiny puffs of mist from the damp ground.
Passing through an open-air market, they turned into Ravenwood Lane. The carriage rattled over the uneven cobblestones. The narrow street was flanked by rows of tall, grimy brick buildings. Gas lamps flickered weakly in the overcast daylight, their glass panes smudged with soot. In the gutters, rainwater from the previous night mingled with debris—discarded scraps of food, stray papers, and the occasional scurry of a rat darting into the shadows.
The neighborhood had an atmosphere of quiet unease. Most windows were shuttered or draped with heavy curtains, as though the occupants were trying to keep out prying eyes. A lone child played with a stick near a wrought-iron fence, her eyes darting nervously to their arrival before she scurried indoors. The faint toll of a distant church bell was the only sound, apart from the rhythmic clatter of the horses' hooves and the occasional bark of a dog.
After paying the coachman, they approached the man's home. It stood apart from its neighbors in subtle disrepair—peeling paint revealed weathered wood beneath, and ivy crept up the sides like green veins, choking the brick facade. The windows were narrow and dark, with one cracked pane in the upper story. A crooked, rusted gate squealed as it swung open under a soft touch, leading them to a small, overgrown yard where weeds strangled the path to the front door.
The front door was thick, dark wood. Xerxes knocked on the pitted surface many times before the door groaned open. A man stepped into view on the shadowed porch—a thin, wiry figure with the stooped posture of someone weighed down by years of turmoil and drink. His face was pale and haggard, deeply lined with furrows that seemed etched by stress rather than age. His hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, surrounded by dark, restless circles, gave him the appearance of a man who hasn't known restful sleep in years.
"Mr. William Pyncheon?"