Bailonz Street 13

“…That’s right. I never thought he would be capable of that. James Stranden was a noble, but not particularly wealthy. You know, don’t you? The nobility consists of both the very high-ranking and those who are nobles in name only, on the brink of ruin. He was the latter. But he was still upright and kind. He cared more for me as a person than for my family’s money, and I knew I couldn’t let him go. Even my father and brother, who initially opposed our relationship, changed their minds because of his attitude. At first, I thought he was just a gentle and foolishly kind man. He was the type who would wash his wife’s feet out of love.”

“And then?”

“…Suddenly, one day, he changed. Yes, thinking back, it was after my father passed away. Since I was the only family left, I became the sole heir. He started going out more and became irritable. He would bring strangers to our house. One day, he came home drunk and said, ‘Amelia, I need money.’ I replied, ‘Your brother sends us money. We also have the dowry. What happened to that?’ It turned out he had squandered it all on gambling.”

My expression grew more serious as I listened to her. I couldn’t hide the tightening at the corners of my mouth. After a moment of thought, I spoke again.

“Was he asking for your father’s inheritance?”

“Probably.”

“So what did you do?”

Amelia, as if searching through her memories, gazed into the distance and spoke.

“I rarely went out, so I didn’t know much about what was happening. But gradually, his relatives started looking at me strangely. The maids whispered about me, and I felt their eyes following me around the house. I was becoming isolated. Can you imagine? Eventually, I heard that my husband was portraying me as a madwoman, claiming that insanity ran in my blood to cut me off from the world.”

At that moment, a missing puzzle piece clicked into place for me. Madness. The word struck me like a blow to the back of my head. Another word flashed through my mind.

“You… you were Creole.”

Amelia Jokins smiled sadly.

In today’s England, a married woman’s property was essentially her husband’s. It was not uncommon in this period for wealthy Creole women (whose fathers were often landowners who had amassed wealth in the colonies and returned to England) to be falsely declared insane and confined to asylums. This was not limited to Creole women. Many wives were labeled as mad and locked away, like Bertha Mason in the attic or Catherine Dickens.

But I had never imagined that such a thing could happen so openly, and I certainly did not expect James Stranden, who had proudly declared his intention to marry with such a pleasant demeanor, to be that kind of person. The property he seized would become James Stranden’s, leaving Amelia Jokins imprisoned and remembered as a madwoman. Listening to her story made my mouth feel as bitter as if I had swallowed a vile potion.

“I thought we could change.”

Amelia murmured.

“I tried to let people know I was sane, but no one listened. Then, to my surprise, James Stranden announced he was going to marry again. Another Creole woman.”

“Christine Besson,” I said.

It struck me that Christine, like Amelia, had become the sole heir after her brother, Justin Besson, died. My mind was already contemplating the worst-case scenario.

For James Stranden, who already had a wife, to marry again was bigamy. Christine Besson would become his mistress, and any children they had would be illegitimate. Even if he later confessed he already had a wife, under English marriage law, it would not be accepted. Unless it was a remarriage due to the death of a spouse!

Was he planning to carry on the marriage under false pretenses? What would become of Christine Besson? Perhaps she would follow the same tragic path, with madness in her blood manifesting again…

“Wait. You said he committed murder. Who did James Stranden kill?”

With a face that looked almost indifferent, Amelia Jokins replied.

“Me.”

I must confess, I struggle to comprehend how one person can kill another. Perhaps I find it impossible. With flesh, fat, muscles, and veins coursing with hot blood, how could one human kill another identical being? If someone did commit such an act, I would surely go mad.

Thus, I cannot fathom the hands and nature of a murderer. There’s no need to empathize with such a twisted being. I often wondered about the various criminals I encountered in cases, questioning what could drive someone to such acts.

Might the perpetrator be non-human?

That thought crossed my mind as I saw defendants in court. Surely, no human could do such things.

Money drives people to madness. I know this well. London’s slums were full of people hardened by their environment and filled with rage. Those living in such conditions often carried knives, and those who earned a bit more carried guns. Children, lacking such means, hid glass shards to protect themselves.

In the 19th century, many things incomprehensible by 21st-century standards were commonplace.

The body was a commodity. Labor, marriage, crime. If I hadn’t become Liam Moore’s assistant, I might have married an old man to save our decrepit family estate. James Stranden, clearly not the laboring type (having been raised genteelly), saw marriage as his only option.

But what atrocities did this greedy man commit?

I froze as if struck by lightning, staring at the woman who had just finished speaking. She was smiling gently, nodding as if she understood my shock. Her cold fingers tapped my hand, helping me regain my composure.

To realize the person I’d been speaking to was not from this world—someone from the other side, across the river—was astonishing. Naturally, I had never imagined conversing with a ghost!

Licking my parched lips, I slowly spoke.

“This is… an unreal situation.”

For days, such events had been plaguing me. I couldn’t understand why. What had I encountered in 19th century London? It was supposed to be a murder mystery game.

After Amelia Jokins finished explaining how she died, she quietly clasped her hands, lost in thought. Her eyes moved slowly as if retracing her past, like reading a book from left to right, then back again.

The fireplace’s fire felt cool. I sat silently for a while, contemplating what to say next. Should I express my condolences for her death?

Amelia broke the long silence.

“I have only one wish.”

“To… find peace?”

“Oh, now there are two. Let’s make finding peace the first.”

Her reply was surprisingly cheerful for someone who had confessed to being murdered. At this point, a notification dinged, indicating a new quest.

“Stop the marriage.”

By any means necessary, she murmured.

“That will save Christine Besson.”

“And what about you?”

Amelia Jokins smiled kindly, reaching out to touch my cheek briefly.

The barrier around me rippled at her touch before popping like a bubble. Iridescent colors swirled—purple, yellow, green. It felt like someone had showered me with soap bubbles. Amid the falling bubbles, Amelia Jokins grew fainter.

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Only an empty chair remained in the dim light.

She was gone. Vanished like mist.

The room warmed again. Though it was the ghost of a dead person, I had felt her presence keenly. The chill she exuded had kept the blazing fireplace at bay. Ghosts could indeed affect reality.

Feeling warmer, I dropped my shawl and stood up.

How to stop the marriage? It was time to ponder the significant task left by the ghost.

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