Ludis de Crato, the aristocrat who had been given a job at the government under the pretense of it being cushy and quite well paid, was many things at the same time: He was a playboy, a heavy drinker, a chain-smoker as long as it wasn’t something as foul-smelling as tobacco, a womanizer who maybe had left four kids behind him, or maybe they were trying to trap him, he didn’t know and didn’t want to know; a man with a graduate title of economics at the Lastrian Academy, not that he used it in his duties at any point, a train hobbyist, and, of course, a student of masculine fashion. He had heard, and had it in good word, that high class nobles, like him, were looking for ways to revolutionize their wardrobe, and he had some great ideas about color and how the ideal proportions should work.

  Oh, and for the last few days, he had been working as an amateur detective under orders of his Highness, the Regent.

  He wasn’t having the greatest of times, enough to have already decided that, beyond his promised reward of a long, costly vacation, he was also going to ask the prince for cash out of his own pocket. At least enough to cover his expenses, maybe more. Let’s leave it at that.

  And, of course, much to his despair, his job wasn’t finished after being informed, early in the morning, that the noble lady his Highness had broken up with a few days earlier, had left in the first train back to her home province out in the sticks. Of course it wasn’t. He had deduced that the whole thing was less revenge, as the prince had sold it, and more that he was worried for her safety. Unfortunately for him, even if she would presumably be safe there, Crato still had to find whoever that hood-wearing pale-faced person of indeterminate gender was doing in front of her townhouse.

  The maid hadn’t called again, which was probably good news, but not necessarily.

  He got to work just after his morning tea, as he mumbled by himself inside of his carriage.

  It had been two days since the scandal of the breakup had suddenly died off in the newspapers, replaced by a regional corruption scandal. Apparently, in the region of Golia, in the eastern coast, it had been found that several local aristocrats were involved in business deals with shady, low-ranking Lontenese nobles; it involved illegal sales of land, and developing of it, arms and drug trafficking, and suspiciously large donations to religious organizations. The surprising thing was that it had been going on for nearly a decade and a half already. Multiple raids had happened recently, but no arrests had happened yet.

  The public opinion was all over the place, but at least, they had stopped talking about Lady Wynthart.

  His first stop was at the Wynthart house. It had been empty for some time and since the event with the hood happened the previous day, and whatever happened at his Highness’ villa, there was a police constable standing right in front of the door.

  “Morning officer!” He said, looking at her. She was pretty, young, brunette and took some great care of her hair. He tipped his top hat and then took it off. “The name is Ludis de Crato.”

  The constable, her name plate read ‘Clarissa’, nodded, in silence.

  Crato clicked his tongue, took a deep breath, and got up two steps, just out of the rain, which was falling in a much gentler way than it had in a while. “I am not quite sure if your bosses may have informed you, but I am the Eyes of the King. And it would help me greatly in my investigation if you could assist me by answering a few questions.” He smiled, it was faker than it normally would with a girl this cute, she had the prettiest little nose, and her blue eyes were almost glistening; but there was something about her that annoyed him.

  She eyed him for a moment, silently studying him, and then sighed. “The Inspector hasn’t told me about anyone coming. Lest of all to ask anything, so, sir,” The ‘sir’ had venom in it, he could feel it. “If you do not show me an identification, or an order from my bosses, I will have to ask you to leave.”

  He arched an eyebrow and audibly groaned. He knew the type, rare but becoming more common seemingly which each passing day. She wasn’t going to bend the knee to his wits or be wooed in any way by his status as nobility.

  “What if I told you that the questions I am to ask you are mind-numbingly banal?” He said, his smile distorting into one far less honest.

  Clarissa turned towards him, and crossed her arms. “You get a single question, sir. And if it’s to ask me out, I will have you arrested on the spot.”

  Crato blinked. Oh, she very aware about her looks. That was one big red flag for him. But fortunately, he wasn’t there to get anything from her except for information.

  “That house over there.” He pointed to the mansion with the tower that was next door. “Have you seen a maid looking through the windows?”

  Now, one may think that it wasn’t so banal of a question, but it was out of left field enough to be able to create a conversation from it. A neat trick that his mother, who had run some of the greatest parties the capital had ever seen, had taught him. She called it ‘Loaded Small Talk’, it always worked in those who hated gossip or wanted to ignore you.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Isn’t that house empty?” She answered. He staggered.

  “No? Of course not. I spoke with a maid who works there yesterday. In fact, she’s the reason you, constable, are here, because she saw someone wearing a hood here.” He put on the fake smile again.

  “I was ordered to come here yesterday in the mid afternoon, and excluding another officer who spent the night here, sir, there was no one else. I haven’t seen this hooded person. Or any maid looking, at that.” She was being sincere, he could tell.

  “Well, she told me that she worked there.” He pointed towards the mansion again. “And I doubt that she lied.”

  She eyed him again, and then sighed. “Maids go to the market, as a rule, at eight, right?”

  Crato blinked, not entirely sure of what she was getting into. “I am not aware, personally, but if that is the case, then sure.”

  “It’s past ten and I haven’t seen anyone get out of the house, not even to pick up the mail, or throw out that trash bag.” She said.

  Crato blinked again. He put on his top hat, again, and walked towards the other house. It was customary for many noble houses to have two cans, the inner one would be filled with the bag of the day at the time of the house’s curfew, and then thrown out to the other one early in the morning so that the cleaning carriage would take care of it. There was still a bag in the inner can, beyond the outer gates of the mansion.

  A shiver went down his spine.

  The house seemed to be perfectly still, he couldn’t see any movement through the windows, or any light on despite the day being so gray. He pushed the gate, in a very light manner, and it just opened, completely unlocked.

  He walked back to the Wynthart townhouse and gestured to the constable. “Clarissa, is it? Come with me.”

  Unsurprisingly, she ignored him.

  “The gates are open and the trash is still inside. You pointed the latter out, so, is not the former strange?” He asked.

  She looked at him for what felt like several minutes, completely in silence. Then, she walked down the steps and went next to him. “I’m armed, sir. If you try anything funny or this turns out to be nonsense, I will arrest you, understood?”

  They both walked, at a fast pace, through the paved way across the mansion’s lawn and went straight to the front door. He knocked. Then they both pressed the button to ring the bell. No response. Then, with a slightly trembling hand, he pushed the door, and it opened with no resistance.

  Clarissa pulled out a small dagger from her belt and muttered something. The blade glowed for a fraction of a second and lengthened to four times its original size. It was a proper service sword, with no personal customization whatsoever. Something rare to see with a young constable. He wasn’t armed, he remembered too late that his gloves, which he didn’t use much, to be fair, were still in the carriage when he told the driver to go back home. Shame on him for wanting to be fully alone so he could go indulge at the market later.

  The interior of the mansion was in complete silence and complete darkness. The place had to have been completely occupied at some point, that was for sure, and most likely not too long ago, given that every piece of furniture seemed to be clean enough. Crato turned on the lights, earning a bad look from Clarissa, but she soon sighed and they started walking across the house, letting out a “Hello!” and a couple of “Is anyone here?” In a short amount of time, they had covered the entire ground floor. No one in any room. There were plates ready to be served up, the closets in the kitchen were full, and so was the icechamber. A pot was on the stove, containing a half-cooked stew, but the fire was off.

  After completing the round, they went upstairs, finding much of the same. Every room was empty, lived in, and without signs of struggle. It was as if, while they were making their normal life, they had all been told to leave. Crato scratched his head. None of it made any sense.

  “Sir, are you entirely sure that that maid you spoke with worked in this house?” Clarissa asked him before muttering again and shrinking the blade back to its pocket size.

  He nodded. “Yes, I am quite sure. And I am quite sure that she called to my office talking about a hooded person with an extremely pale face. Why do you ask?”

  “Apart from the strange condition this mansion is in?” She turned around to look at him.

  He nodded again.

  “Because I’m pretty sure this house, for nobles, wasn’t lived in by any of them. Or at least no noble who lives in the city.” She said, there was a hint of alarm in her voice.

  Crato staggered, and then looked around. There were no portraits in any wall that they had seen, a rarity in the residence of a noble, as the normal thing was that they were almost shrines, showcasing the glorious acts of their ancestors that granted them their current status. The only exceptions being people like Wynthart, whose family’s history is better buried, beyond the stories about her father, of course. But even then, the Wynthart’s had a coat of arms in the front door, he hadn’t seen any in this other house, and there weren’t any inside of it either. Everything was neutral, impersonal, and yet, people clearly had lived there until the very previous night.

  Another mystery. The third since he was a detective, by his count.

  “Let us get out of here.” He said, with a long sigh. “I will make a report this afternoon, which I will also send to your bosses, they will probably ask you several questions then. And so will I when this investigation, to my disgrace, continues.”

  Clarissa followed him outside, past the lawn and past the gates. Then they both looked at the mansion.

  Crato groaned, realizing the implications of what this vanishing act may had, in the various scenarios that, in quick succession, played in his mind. Work, work and more work. He prayed, internally, that this job was temporary and not his life now.