Chapter 83 …
This “Blessing of Anubis” is said to have first been mentioned in a forbidden book written by an Arab scholar, a grimoire called Necronomicon.
“According to the occasional records that have been passed down, it wasn’t just those directly struck by the curse—those who tried to uncover the secrets surrounding the relic also died under a similar curse.”
Could it be that we, trying to probe secrets through the talking board, met our end at the hands of the hound for the same reason?
As I nodded, recalling memories from before the regression, Helena said something I hadn’t expected.
“I found a record left by Sir Hugo Baskerville, the great-grandfather of Sir Charles.”
What Hugo Baskerville left behind was a kind of memoir.
Originally, he wasn’t the legitimate heir of the Baskerville family.
“He was originally a tomb raider from the Netherlands, but it seems he laundered his social standing with illegally acquired wealth to enter high society.”
Since he had no son, he married the eldest daughter of the Baskerville family, whose lineage was in danger of ending.
By becoming a son-in-law, he gained the right to use the Baskerville surname.
“However, while he was still actively tomb raiding, Hugo discovered an extremely peculiar tomb untouched by human hands.”
The moment he arrived at the ancient cemetery, a hound began barking in the distance.
But Hugo ignored it and began excavating, eventually uncovering a coffin of exquisite craftsmanship.
“The jewel clutched in the corpse’s hand—that was the Blessing of Anubis.”
Afterward, Hugo gained immense wealth, but soon he began suffering from inexplicable auditory and visual hallucinations.
Faintly realizing that the relic he had unearthed was the cause of the curse, he brought it to an expert he trusted.
“That expert was Ephraim Waite.”
“…What?”
I was too shocked to even breathe properly.
Helena’s expression was very serious.
“That’s the same name you asked me about before, right?”
I didn’t know if it was the very same person or just a coincidence, but…
“The connection is too strong for it to be a mere namesake.”
Although not a famous figure, Ephraim actively communicated with other archaeology experts.
Ephraim Waite!
A memory associated with Randolph that I had regained during a previous regression.
…Not only did he appear there, but now his name appears again here.
About a week after the shocking news of Sir Charles’ suspicious death spread, Inspector Lestrade’s handling of matters was flawless.
Thanks to officially declaring the cause of death as “accidental,” Miss Titania avoided unnecessary gossip, and Titania Baskerville and the remaining family members were able to attend Sir Charles’ funeral safely.
“I introduced her to a competent lawyer.”
Thanks to the lawyer Sir Henry had introduced, the inheritance was distributed without any complications, and no further disputes arose.
Most guests, who had been detained as potential suspects, left immediately after being granted permission to depart.
A few, including Jane, Chris, and Jimmy, stayed until the very end to attend Sir Charles’ funeral.
“Thank you all so much… truly, truly thank you…”
Titania’s eyes welled with tears as she expressed her sincere gratitude.
These three left the mansion immediately after the funeral, and I took a moment to personally thank Jane.
“Emily, what do you have to be thanked for?”
Jane asked, eyes wide, and I could only smile.
Honestly, it would not be an exaggeration to say that her efforts were crucial in resolving this incident.
Before I left the ominous mansion myself, I called out to Sherlock Holmes, who was preparing to depart at the same time.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Holmes, there’s something I want to ask you. But before that…”
I could no longer delay.
I had to confirm the truth.
“There’s also something I must confess. Are you ready to hear it?”
“Of course.”
Shortly afterward, we sat across from each other in the parlor prepared by Titania, with tea set before us.
Facing Sherlock, who waited seriously for me to speak, I began with a heavy heart.
“Mr. Holmes—no, Sherlock… do you know a man named Enoch Bowen?”
Sherlock’s eyes widened almost to the point of popping out.
After hearing everything from me, Sherlock furrowed his brows.
“It’s so shocking that I don’t know what to say. But let me ask the most pressing question first…”
His eyes shone more sharply than ever as he looked directly at me.
“How do you even know about this?”
“…”
“Mrs. Carter—no, Emily… who exactly are you?”
Sherlock looked at me with a meaningful gaze.
I could only bite my lip.
Because…
The question he asked was one I could not answer.
My identity—what it truly was…
“I, too, wonder about that.”
Honestly, the person most unsettled by this was no one else but me.
…Why do these chilling memories exist in my mind?
If only I were a medium like Jane, born with a special ability.
Then perhaps I would understand that these visions came from possessing spirits.
“But I have no such power.”
That much I knew for certain.
The reason I could confront the “unknown horrors” now was due to the means and blessings granted by the Yellow King, not my own abilities.
Therefore, the only thing I could say was:
“I don’t know.”
“Even so, I will reveal the truth to you, even if it brings suspicion upon me… At least we have jointly experienced two incidents, haven’t we?”
“…”
Sherlock frowned but remained silent for a moment, then continued.
“Sir Charles’ journal.”
“…Pardon?”
“You mentioned that it contains references to ‘that person.’ Once I have more certainty, I will tell you everything.”
“…”
Our eyes met.
The next moment, we both exclaimed the same name.
“Enoch Bowen!”
Sherlock, too, believed that the ‘that person’ mentioned in Sir Charles’ journal was none other than Enoch Bowen.
“The timeline fits perfectly. You may not know, but Enoch Bowen quit his professorship and suddenly moved to the United States…”
There, he founded an organization called the Order of the Wisdom of the Stars.
With his eloquence, he began gathering followers.
“Enoch stayed in the U.S. for quite some time, during which…”
“This overlaps with the period when Sir Charles went to America seeking a new challenge, right?”
Sherlock Holmes nodded.
“And I was a companion of that Enoch Bowen.”
“…”
The sudden confession was exactly what I had anticipated.
Sherlock continued.
Yes, that happened roughly twenty years ago.
I was born into a poor family and worked as a factory laborer. In my late teens, a benefactor noticed me.
“I sense potential in you.”
I realized that the elderly man who often sent me on errands was actually a researcher and scholar.
He personally sent me to university to study.
I always called him my “mentor” and trusted him completely.
He was the person I respected most in the world.
My mentor taught criminology at the university. Even the highest-ranking officials of the Metropolitan Police listened to him attentively like gentle lambs.
On one occasion, even the Commissioner of Police came to his office to bow his head.
Mostly, they requested his assistance with investigations.
“Look, Sherlock. Today’s police investigations are sloppy and inadequate. It will be a long time before precise investigations are possible.”
“By precise investigations, do you mean scientific methods?”
“Science? Hahaha.”
For a moment, a flicker of madness crossed his face, but then he returned to his usual sage-like expression.
“Science, yes. A good word. But Sherlock, if this world could truly rely solely on science, reason, logic, and knowledge…”
No.
That flicker of madness was real.
Within his pale blue eyes, set among deeply wrinkled features, a dangerous glint flickered.
“Why do incomprehensible tragedies, unexplainable by reason, occur repeatedly?”
Although not frequent, bizarre incidents had already occurred at that time.
Whenever answers were sought, my mentor was always the first to be called upon.
“But mentor, why do you hide your name? Why do you always stay in the shadows of the police…”
I asked this, troubled that his contributions went unnoticed.
“Sherlock, haven’t I always said that achievements, fame, and renown are all meaningless? This world is just a passage we pass through. The real world…”
At that moment, I suddenly felt the air grow cold.
My mentor’s crescent-shaped lips gave off an eerie impression.
“It lies behind… behind all of this… beyond the ruin of this world.”
“….”
After that conversation, I never asked him such questions again.
Years spent by his side were devoted not only to learning advanced investigative techniques but also philosophy, logic, art, and literature.
His wisdom flowed like an unimpeded river, encompassing all fields.
Its depth spanned from ancient times to the present.
Completely inspired by him, one day, when I turned twenty:
“Sherlock, I have a request for you.”
