Chapter 5

[Mr. Ward was highly agitated and initially refused to sign; after a private meeting with the Blackwood family's lawyer, his attitude changed markedly. Mr. Blackwood expressed a willingness to provide the "necessary support" for the deceased's family's future livelihood.]

"They bribed the family."

"Or perhaps they threatened them," the inspector said. "Either way, this was not a voluntary withdrawal of the charges."

He flipped back through the pages.

Further on, there was even an unofficial appendix: a hand-drawn sketch of the crime scene by a young officer.

The inspector glanced at it briefly before handing the paper to me.

"Look at the position of this stove corner."

I examined it closely.

The sketch showed that the spot where Elena had fallen was some distance from the fireplace. Moreover, the coroner's report clearly mentioned multiple defensive wounds and bruises of varying ages on her body.

"She wasn't just shoved," I said.

"Of course not," the inspector said coldly. "She was beaten repeatedly and ultimately died from a severe head injury. The story about a 'psychotic episode leading to an accidental injury of his wife' is nothing more than a fig leaf stitched together by the group."

I suddenly recalled the sunken chest of Adrian's body from this morning, and a chill crept slowly up my spine.

"Inspector," I said softly, "What about Adrian's death..."

"Doesn't it look like karma?" he asked, closing the file.

The archives were eerily quiet, broken only by the soft crackling of the oil lamp.

"I don't know," I finally said. "But if there is such a thing as retribution, this kind of death does seem as though it were specifically intended for him."

"Let's pay a visit to the Wards tonight," he said.

"Now?"

"Now." He stood up. "I want to see Elena's father."

"Do you think he'll tell us?"

"He wouldn't have back then, but he might now," the inspector said. "Because Adrian is dead."

I stood up, lost in thought.

*Who killed Adrian?

The living one?

Or his late wife, the woman who has been buried in the churchyard?*

——

The Wards lived on an old street in South Lambeth.

The houses were low, porches narrow, and in winter, soot clung beneath the eaves.

People here were diligent, restrained, and moral.

When we arrived there, the street was nearly deserted.

Only a little way off, a grocery store was just closing up for the night, and the shopkeeper was bringing the milk cans inside.

As the carriage drew to a stop in front of their house, the inspector got out and looked up at the number.

"This is it," the inspector said.

I walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

There was no response from inside.

After a long while, a faint shuffling sound came from within.

The door opened a crack, revealing the face of an extremely weary woman.

She was in her early forties, cheekbones jutting, eyelids puffy from weeping.

She glanced at me, then at the inspector behind me, and an instinctive wariness flashed across her face.

"Who are you looking for?" the woman asked.

"We're from the police station," the inspector said, handing over his badge. "We'd like to see Mr. Joseph Ward."

She was startled; her fingers tightened around the doorframe.

"He's ill," she said. "He doesn't know anything."

She then moved to close the door.

The inspector reached out to block the door, his tone still calm.

"Madam, we're not here to cause him any trouble, but to ask about the death of Adrian Blackwood," the inspector said.

She froze instantly.

The color drained from her face, and her lips trembled slightly.

"He… is dead?" the woman whispered.

"Yes."

The woman stared at us blankly, motionless for a long moment.

Then, a complex, indescribable expression slowly began to surface in her swollen, weary eyes.

"Amy, who's here?"

A man's voice came from inside the door—hoarse and weak.

The woman glanced back and finally took a half-step back.

"Come in," the woman said.

Stepping through the doorway, we entered the Wards' small living room: narrow and old, yet exceptionally tidy.

A worn blue-checked tablecloth covered the table; in the corner, geraniums grew lush. On the mantelpiece rested several Bibles and a volume of Milton's poems.

The small window-side sofa's springs sagged, but careful patches showed years of use.

The room smelled of old furniture, medicine, and damp air.

Inside, Joseph Ward sat in the armchair by the fireplace, waiting.

He was older than I had imagined.

In fact, for a man in his early sixties, he shouldn't have looked so haggard.

His frame seemed bent beneath an invisible weight: slumped shoulders, heavy eyelids.

An old blanket was draped over his knees.

"Police?" Joseph Ward murmured.

The inspector stepped forward and introduced himself.

Upon hearing this, Mr. Ward did not invite us to sit down.

"If this is about my daughter," Mr. Ward said, lowering his head, "it was all settled two years ago."

His words sounded rehearsed, each line without pause.

"Adrian Blackwood died today," the inspector said, going straight to the point.

The room fell silent.

Amy instinctively covered her mouth.

Mr. Ward slowly raised his head; at first, his eyes were a dull, lifeless gray, then his Adam's apple bobbed heavily.

"How did he die?" Mr. Ward asked, his voice trembling.

The inspector answered simply. "Beaten to death."

Mr. Ward's fingers curl up suddenly.

Then, he actually let out a very soft chuckle.

His eyes reddened, and the smile was followed by deeper pain.

"Karma," Mr. Ward murmured.

Amy immediately took a step forward and called out softly, "Joseph!"

Ignoring her, he muttered, "I knew this day would come. It was overdue."

The inspector slowly pulled out a chair and sat down.

"It seems you no longer believe this is an unfortunate family tragedy, as you did when you signed the papers two years ago," the inspector said.

Mr. Ward's shoulders trembled slightly.

He was silent for a long while before raising a hand to cover his eyes.

"What do you want to know?" Mr. Ward said.

"Everything."