Chapter 49

Chapter 49

“Body of young woman found under Romberton Bridge.”

“Fourth indiscriminate killing in Romberton. Public anxiety surges. Security rapidly deteriorating.”

“Sixteen unsolved murders this year alone. The Endore Kingdom faces a nationwide crime crisis.”

“Victim identified as 25-year-old Betty Jones, maid at the Dautryche Manor.”

Rose sat reading the newspaper, her face frozen and pale. Across from her sat Amelie, eyes swollen and red.

“We realized Betty was missing two mornings ago.”

“…So the day after I spoke with her.”

Amelie’s jaw was tight, as if she were grinding her teeth to hold back sobs, her entire face drawn and exhausted.

“Was it my fault for pushing her? Is that why she snuck out of the dorms?”

“No, Amelie. It’s not your fault.”

Rose said it firmly, though she felt equally guilty.

Betty had vanished the morning after Rose called her in to question her about the ghost.

It was too much of a coincidence to dismiss her death as mere chance.

Especially given the details Betty had shared about the ghost’s appearance—it was all too telling.

Rose forced herself to think back to those details, trying to recall every feature Betty had described.

She drew a breath.

“Amelie. Do you know anything about Grace? Anything at all?”

Amelie shook her head.

“Nothing special.”

“It doesn’t have to be special. How did Betty meet her? What did she look like? Anything.”

“Betty said she got a free fortune reading on the street. I think… it was on Freehen Street.”

Freehen Street. The place was famous for its bustling flea markets. It wasn’t far from the Dautryche Manor.

Rose knew it well; before opening her spirit office, she and Arthur had worked there as street fortune-tellers to scrape together enough money.

“Do you really think… you think Grace is the culprit?”

“Not exactly. I just… have a bad feeling.”

“Then what about necromancy?! Can’t you call Betty’s spirit and ask who killed her?!”

Rose shook her head slowly.

“Necromancy can’t identify a murderer like that.”

Amelie’s face fell at the blunt answer.

“You must be exhausted after all those police questions. Why don’t you take the day off? I’ll tell Mrs. Margaret.”

After Amelie finally trudged out, Rose sat staring at the newspaper headlines scattered on the parlor table.

There were editorials blasting the surge in crime and failures of the local police. Others were trashy sensational pieces, treating the maid’s murder like some lurid drama simply because she’d worked at the Dautryche estate.

Rose closed her eyes. She couldn’t stop seeing Betty’s terrified face as she’d asked about the ghost.

She wished she’d done something—made up an excuse, anything to keep Betty close.

It was too late now.

The regret felt like it would choke her.

“Betty. Don’t be afraid. I just want to know what the ghost you saw looked like.”

“…They all have different shapes. Different colors. They float… and if they touch you, it tingles. It’s so scary.”

That wasn’t a ghost, Rose realized grimly. That was leftover magical residue I hadn’t cleaned up.

Mythos could see and feel magic traces.

But Betty wasn’t a Mythos. If she were, she’d have recognized it for what it was.

Rose chewed her lower lip raw, pacing her room, recalling every word of their conversation.

“Mmm. Don’t ghosts usually look pale and human-shaped?”

“Please believe me. Every ghost I’ve seen since I was little looked like that.”

“Since you were little?”

“I even saw the same ghost with Miss Grace under Romberton Bridge! She banished it right in front of me!”

Rose repeated the words silently, narrowing her eyes.

Under Romberton Bridge… with Grace. Then…

Suddenly a thought struck her. She darted to her desk and seized a pen.

“If that’s true… if that’s true!”

There wasn’t time to find proper stationery. She yanked a scrap of memo paper and scrawled her letter in haste.

“Uncle. How do you identify a Revis? I need a way to test it. Urgent. —Rose”

She gathered wind-aspect mana in her palm.

“Recipient: Alphonse Aaron Crowley.”

She snapped her fingers. A tiny whirlwind spun to life, clutching the paper with white jasmine petals in its vortex.

The wind swallowed the message whole and vanished.

Disgusting method, but it’s the fastest way.

It wasn’t a standard mailing address—it was magic, sending it directly to the person named.

It was Arthur’s personal spell, one of his most convenient inventions.

Using magic developed by her ex-lover was never pleasant, but Rose didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

The sending is fast… but the reply might not be.

Was Crowley still busy with the Robert Burns case? Had she picked a terrible moment to bother him?

She couldn’t keep still, biting her swollen lip as she paced in circles, waiting.

Minutes passed, or perhaps hours—it felt endless.

Finally, a small whirlwind reappeared before her eyes, bearing a thick envelope.

Rose snatched it up, broke the wax seal, and read quickly—her face lighting with relief.

“Uncle, you’re the best.”

She tucked the letter carefully into her coat and strode straight for James’s office.

Until just yesterday, the Dautryche Manor had been calm and orderly. But the moment newspapers hit the market with Betty’s death splashed across the front page, everything descended into chaos.

Betty’s body had been found in town—and the fact that she’d been a maid in the Dautryche household turned the case into instant tabloid fodder.

Questions and interview requests poured in.

Lawyers and staff had been running around since dawn trying to handle the mess, leaving the entire estate in turmoil.

Amelie and the other servants who’d been close to Betty were exhausted from the morning’s police questioning.

Even those who hadn’t known her well were shaken by the sudden, violent loss of a colleague.

Inside James’s private office, he and Philip sat discussing how to handle it.

“This was obviously deliberate sabotage aimed at our company’s image! I’m sure it’s the work of the Keith Trading House!”

Philip was almost shouting, waving his arms in agitation.

James leaned back, uninterested, scanning the various editions of Romberton’s papers spread out across the desk.

“Philip, don’t be so hasty. For one thing, Dautryche Company and the Keith Trading House don’t even have overlapping business areas.”

The headlines were appallingly lurid:

“Who is the Killer? A Love Triangle Turns Deadly in a Tycoon’s Mansion!”

“Exclusive Scoop—Scandalous Three-Way Affair!”

“Victim B: Slain by Mr. D or Miss B?”

“Spirit Medium Miss B: Consumed by Jealousy and Possession?”

“Lurid” didn’t even begin to cover it—it was outright vile.

Sure, the basic news about the murder was unavoidable. Police had clearly leaked details to the press.

But these foul rumors were something else entirely.

Four different newspapers ran the same garbage on the same morning.

That’s not random. That’s someone’s script.

James’s brow furrowed deeply.

“Sir. Don’t forget—the papers had these stories before the police even informed us. The Keith Trading House’s owner’s son-in-law is a shareholder in one of them.”

It wasn’t the first time Dautryche had faced smear campaigns. It came with being a major company.

But this time felt different.

Before, attacks had targeted the company itself.

Now they were singling out individuals.

“Stop ranting and focus on what’s urgent. Get our official statement out. Make sure the victim’s family receives their condolence payment and compensation. Don’t forget a thing.”

“An official statement alone? That’s all?”

James jerked his chin at the mountain of newspapers.

“Of course not. File defamation suits.”

He didn’t particularly care if they attacked him personally.

The company wouldn’t fall over tabloid trash, and baseless rumors rarely lasted long.

But this time was different.

They’d found a much juicier target than James Dautryche himself.

Romberton’s renowned spirit medium—Miss B.

Miss Blavatsky.

Rose Taylor.

The press had latched onto her presence with ravenous delight, their imaginations running wild in ways James had not fully anticipated.