As he scanned the area for a place to hide from the rain, the idea flashed into his mind: he could head back to the old mansion. When he returned to the hall, he was completely drenched. The raindrops fell one by one onto the wooden floor, producing a crisp, rhythmic sound.
Lee swept the room with the faint beam of his flashlight. He examined each item slowly, one by one: the broken-legged table, the worn-out bed, the lamp without its shade, and the ancient books covered in dust. A faint smile flickered at the corner of his lips but vanished just as quickly, leaving his expression as cold and unreadable as ever.
He approached the table, bent down, and studied it closely. Lawrence Stamford, as expected of the Lord of the Mansion, had spared no expense. The table was made of red sandalwood, known as the "gold of woods," and specifically of the most expensive variety, rosewood-patterned sandalwood. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the design unique, and the texture naturally beautiful—a priceless masterpiece. Yet now, one of its legs was broken, leaving the table leaning crookedly against the wall.
Outside, a shadowy figure crept closer, moving as silently as a cat. Its front paws touched the ground first, followed by its hind paws, leaving no sound in its wake.
The figure slipped into the hall of the old mansion, inching closer to Lee. Judging by the shadow it cast, the figure was far more imposing in stature than Lee.
Time seemed to freeze. The old mansion was enveloped in a deathly silence.
The shadow drew nearer, almost within arm's reach of Lee. Just then, the flashlight in his hand flickered and died, plunging the hall into complete darkness.
The shadow hesitated, as if about to retreat. But then, a faint light returned—Lee had swiftly moved to the side, flashlight in hand, and now stood a short distance away, his cold gaze fixed on the intruder.
The shadow was a burly man, radiating energy, his eyes as sharp as daggers. Lee's expression, however, remained blank, devoid of emotion. Their eyes met, and it was as if blades had clashed in the air, each man momentarily surprised by the other.
After a long silence, the shadow finally spoke, a smile spreading across his face. "You must be Lee, Miss Stamford's friend. My name is Jack. Arabella Stamford is my client. She mentioned you, though I didn't expect to run into you here."
"Is that so?" Lee replied calmly. "You must be the private detective she hired." Lee had agreed to help Arabella uncover the truth behind her father Lawrence's disappearance as a friend, but she had also enlisted the help of a professional. Jack was that detective.
Jack's smile was warm, almost boyish. "How long have you been here? Found anything interesting?"
Lee countered, "I just arrived. What do you think there is to find here?"
"Testing me, are you?" Jack's sharp eyes scanned the room like a hawk's. "Someone's been here recently—might've even stayed here."
"Oh?" Lee glanced out the window, his tone indifferent. "Isn't this place supposed to be haunted? Who would come here to stay?"
"Not only am I sure someone's been here, I'd bet it was a woman," Jack continued. "Otherwise, why go to the trouble of faking all this?"
"Faking it?"
"Look." Jack stepped closer to the broken-legged table. "Given Lawrence's status as a nobleman and the craftsmanship of this table, the wood must be top quality. I'm no expert, but I know it's durable—it wouldn't just break after a few decades. Someone deliberately snapped that leg to make it look like no one's been here."
"And this dust?" Jack walked to the bookshelf and pulled out a book. "From the outside, the books look covered in dust, but the sides and inside covers are clean. The difference is too stark—it's been staged." Jack's attention to detail was impressive, befitting a professional detective.
"But how do you know it's a woman?" Lee asked, frowning.
"Easy," Jack replied. "Can't you smell that faint fragrance? If I'm not mistaken, it's Chanel No. 5—one of the most expensive perfumes in France."
"You can identify the perfume?" Lee, who had remained impassive until now, was visibly surprised. "Do you have a nose like Sherlock Holmes?"
Jack chuckled. "Not quite. It's just that my recent girlfriend wears this perfume. At $170 an ounce, it's one of the world's most expensive fragrances. Hard to forget once you've smelled it."
He rummaged through the nightstand and pulled out an empty bottle. "See? Chanel No. 5. I was right, wasn't I?" He carefully placed the bottle into a plastic bag he'd brought with him.
"So, not only am I sure someone's been here recently, I'm certain it was a woman," Jack concluded. "But you already knew all this, didn't you?"
"I only know this," Lee said softly. "Earlier, I saw a woman in white under the sycamore tree. When I went to investigate, she vanished."
"Come to think of it, I also heard a strange sound when I arrived—must've been the flute. But where could she have gone? In this heavy rain, in the middle of the mountains, where could a woman disappear to?" Jack tilted his head, puzzled.
"Perhaps she wasn't human," Lee mused. "Maybe she was a ghost, appearing briefly before vanishing again. Or maybe she saw how lonely we were and decided to visit us from the afterlife."
Lee had meant it as a joke to lighten the mood, but an inexplicable chill settled over both men, leaving them cold and uneasy.