Chapter 23:
“…Alright.”
Maybe it was because I was a little dazed.
As I stammered out a reply, the young man gave a subtly seductive smile.
“Then, I’ll take my leave now. Once again, I apologize, Mrs. Carter.”
Leaving behind his apology, McMurrin quickly exited the shop.
The bell jingled as the door shut behind him.
“This way.”
I followed the young man’s guidance and entered a reception room deeper inside.
The small space was decorated with exotic artworks from faraway places like Africa and South America.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Carter. I hear you’re quite interested in the statues from the Edinburgh Cemetery.”
Contrary to his handsome face, his voice was a deep baritone that echoed like it came from a cave. I lifted my head in surprise.
It was a voice with a sense of gravity, making it hard to guess his age.
‘I’ve definitely heard that voice before!’
But from where? Why did this man, who was supposedly a stranger, feel so familiar?
The man continued speaking.
“I work under Mr. McMurrin as a handyman and receptionist, but I’m personally quite interested in this sort of thing.”
A handyman.
It made sense for an art store to employ someone strong enough to move heavy sculptures or artifacts…
But this man didn’t fit that image at all.
Though his outfit was modest, there wasn’t a single worn patch at the cuffs.
His hands—long, pale, and well-kept—seemed like they had never done a day of labor.
‘And more than anything, his way of speaking.’
Though he had a slight Edinburgh accent, his choice of words clearly showed he was highly educated.
…My instincts were screaming.
‘This man is lying to me.’
But why?
“These ‘Living Statues’ are commonly thought of as mere spooky urban legends…”
As he continued explaining, I examined his face closely.
His neatly styled dark blond hair shimmered under the room’s light.
His skin was so pale you could see his veins, and his sharp nose and full lips gave him a noble yet sensual appearance.
“During my time working with Mr. McMurrin, I’ve met more than a few people who claimed to have seen these statues move.”
“…You mean it’s happened multiple times?”
I leaned forward, showing my interest.
“Of course. Moreover…”
The man smiled sweetly, eyes curling into crescent moons.
…If someone were susceptible to such things, they’d likely be blushing at that smile.
“The villagers who made these statues called them ‘The Blind Accusers.’”
His voice held a languid, almost decadent tone.
“Perhaps due to their name, these statues have exposed numerous hidden wrongdoings.”
A high-ranking official accepting bribes.
A respected public figure secretly abusing his child.
A seemingly legitimate business actually serving as a front for crime, and so on.
Those who owned these ‘Blind Accusers’ had their secrets exposed—without fail.
“And every time, the owners tried to get rid of the strange statues. That’s how they ended up traveling all the way to a remote Scottish cemetery.”
“A statue with quite the tragic history.”
After I gave a few polite responses, he went on to explain how the statues exposed wrongdoing.
When someone capable of interpreting their messages came along, the statue would subtly move when not being watched…
…and point its finger toward where the injustice lay hidden.
“So by investigating where the statue points, one can uncover corruption?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s fascinating.”
The man smiled, seemingly pleased by my reaction.
But beneath the arch of his high eyebrows, his pale blue eyes shimmered with a chill like ice.
The moment our eyes met—
“By the way.”
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
He seemed surprised by the sudden question.
But he quickly smiled and pulled a name tag from his pocket, pinning it to his chest.
“Simon Armoryit. That’s A, R, M, O, R, Y, I, T. Armoryit.”
I stared closely at the name on the tag.
[Simon Armoryit]
As I stared at the unusually spelled surname, a voice from my memory suddenly echoed:
“I love anagrams. Just by rearranging the letters, everything can change.”
Anagrams.
Suddenly, the letters of Armoryit scrambled before my eyes.
And with a flash, I understood everything.
“But sometimes it all feels a bit silly. Who decides what’s just and unjust?”
“…”
“If you ask whether the statue truly decides such things of its own will… well, it’s hard not to feel skeptical.”
His calm, composed reasoning didn’t match his seductive appearance.
But having just solved the riddle, I was in no state to respond.
Instead…
“…James.”
I threw out my only card, catching him off guard.
At the name, the man instinctively looked up to meet my gaze.
“Oh, right. You said Simon, didn’t you? Sorry, I got confused for a second.”
His icy blue eyes briefly flickered with surprise.
That was my moment. I abruptly stood.
“Come to think of it, I forgot I had an afternoon appointment. Thank you for the conversation… I’ll be going now.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turned and left the room.
A chill ran down my spine.
The air felt heavier, and I sensed a sharp gaze piercing the back of my head.
“I also enjoyed our time, madam.”
I slowly turned back.
His voice remained polite, but—
The young man’s face was entirely different now from the one that greeted customers.
“I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again very soon.”
It was the expression of someone who looked down on the world from above.
…In that instant, my vague suspicion solidified into certainty.
I was gripped by sheer, hair-raising terror.
“…”
Without responding, I bolted from the room.
I slammed the door open like I was being chased.
The bell jingled behind me as I jumped into the car.
“Take me back to the estate!”
The driver started the engine.
Even as the scenery slowly blurred past the window, my heart continued to race.
Like I’d sprinted a full 100 meters, I felt breathless and shaken.
Eventually—
The sign for McMurrin’s Art Store disappeared into the distance.
But that man’s smirking face stayed vivid in my mind.
Though he introduced himself as “Simon Armoryit”…
I was now certain that was a false name.
Armoryit was nothing more than an anagram of Moriarty.
His true identity was—
Baron James Moriarty.
The eternal nemesis of Sherlock Holmes.
A man who, in other timelines, was called the King of the Underworld, or the Crime Lord of the Shadows.
And more than that…
He was the one who had killed me. Twice.
If Henry had been possessed by a malicious spirit when he murdered me…
Then James Moriarty killed me like swatting away a fly—simply because I was in his way.
⋯⋯
Two days passed since I’d visited McMurrin’s shop.
I’d been trying not to think about Baron Moriarty, but the memories refused to fade.
I’d died a total of 23 times so far.
The 12th and 13th were both thanks to James Moriarty.
‘That was the train station fire, wasn’t it?’
People thought it was started by a drunk homeless man.
But the truth was, it had involved “the unknown mystery.”
James Moriarty and his subordinates were part of it too.
“Boss, what should we do with her? She’s Emily Carter—Randolph Carter’s widow…”
“Ah, that damn Randolph Carter. What do you mean, what should we do?”
That cold voice, laced with amusement, still haunted me.
“Just kill her cleanly.”
The 12th time, I was shot in the temple by one of his men.
The 13th, I was pushed from the top floor of Big Ben.
At the time, the Moriarty I faced—
Had his face burned by the unquenchable flames summoned by the strange being.
“…No wonder I didn’t recognize him right away.”
But that deep, resonant voice—
That subtle, unnerving atmosphere—had stirred my sense of déjà vu.
In any case—
After my 13th death, I returned to a point six months earlier.
It was the longest jump I’d ever made, even compared to when I survived the end of the world.
I intervened in the incident before ever meeting Moriarty and destroyed the creature, preventing the disaster.
“So technically, his unharmed face is thanks to me.”
But how had I ended up facing him like this?
I tried recalling anything from my previous life about Moriarty that might link him to the Living Statues.
But I found no clue.
“Emily, what are you thinking so hard about?”
“Huh? Oh…”
Ever since I came back from McMurrin’s, Helena had been concerned about the gloom on my face.
But I hadn’t told her anything about James Moriarty.
The fewer who know about him, the better.
Even in the previous timeline, he had kept his identity under tight wraps.
In other words, anyone who learned his secret… didn’t live long.
When I gave a vague non-answer, Helena narrowed her eyes.
“…You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?”
“…”
She stared at me with calm eyes like a still lake.
Then, shaking her head, she returned to her usual tone.
“Well, whatever. This isn’t the first time you’ve been like this… Anyway, here. Take this.”
She handed me a luxurious envelope scented with perfume.
I broke the wax seal, revealing an invitation.
Dearest Mrs. Emily Carter,
I would be honored to invite you to my estate.
Your friend, James Moriarty.
