Wensworth factory lay in ruins, as the rising sun tickled the rubble with its shining fingers. The chilly air stung those who breathed it in. A couple of policemen lingered around the scene, hoping to catch some clue to this explosion.
"This is hopeless," sighed one of them, shivering from the cold. "I'm done with this. How about you?"
"Hmm… I guess so…"
"Well, then, I'm leaving now."
The group of police marched on to the iron-barred gates of the fallen factory, where Inspector Branch, a wide, corpulent man dressed in a blue coat and trousers stood, his straw hair sticking out from a blue bowler hat.
"So, no luck?" he asked them, as they opened the gates and trudged out, tired after a morning searching for clues in the ruins.
"No sir, we've found nothing to give us a lead on this explosion."
"Oh dear, that is bad news… Yes, bad news indeed… Well, I suppose now that we have no evidence of foul play, we can put this down as an engineering accident of some sort."
"Sir, is it true that they've sent a detective here to help us in this investigation?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes, that's true. He's a strange fellow; I've only met him once, and he barely talked too. I've heard rumors about him; apparently, he's the best detective in the Constabulary but gives the information and credit to his superiors to avoid unnecessary attention. I'll say, I'd sure like to see him try and find something in this absurd—"
He was suddenly interrupted by the soft clip-clopping of an approaching horse and the squeaking of its trailing cab's wheels. When Inspector Branch saw who it was carrying, his face changed from confusion to incredulity.
"My word! It's the man himself! And who's that behind him? Oh, he's also brought along Mr Wensworth too."
The newcomer, striding in front of a haggard Mr Wensworth, could not be older than thirty, with his jet black hair reflecting the early sun. His sinewy arms hid beneath a thick brown coat, which was wrapped around him like a shell on a snail, protecting him against the cold. Piercing green eyes scanned the situation, then his thin mouth spoke.
"Pleased to meet you again, Inspector Branch."
He extended a calloused hand out, which the inspector shook hesitantly.
"I see you've already inspected the scene," he added, looking down at the blackened shoes of the other policemen.
"That's right, we have, and I haven't got a single clue on how the explosion happened. I think it's safe to presume that the entire incident was an accident—"
"No, I think it's still too early to assume such things."
Everyone froze. No one had ever contradicted the inspector before.
"Your name is?" asked Inspector Branch, slightly offended.
"William Sigerson, sir."
"So then, Sigerson, do you think you can find something?"
"Possibly. In fact, if nothing had been removed from the scene, it is highly probable that there could still be incriminating evidence hidden somewhere in this rubble."
"Incriminating evidence? Evidence of what?"
"A crime. I believe someone purposely sabotaged this factory—"
Mr Wensworth, who kept quiet throughout his arrival, burst out, "But this is impossible! Everyone was in the dining hall, and nobody suspicious entered or exited the factory on that day."
"Are you sure everybody was in the hall, Mr Wensworth? What about your secretary?" asked Sigerson.
"If you think Winslow blew up the boiler, then you couldn't be more wrong; he's been with me for over a decade and has never once attempted to do anything like that," replied Mr Wensworth impatiently.
"Has his behaviour changed at all during the previous weeks?"
"Well, yes, but I suppose I have been giving him more work than he usually has."
"That's interesting…"
Sigerson was looking out at the ashy rubble as though he was hypnotised. He broke the silence as suddenly as it started.
"The engineer brought in claimed the explosion was due to a faulty pressure valve; am I correct?"
"Yes, that's what he said," replied the inspector in a dull voice.
At this, Sigerson leapt forwards, wrenched the iron gates open, and called behind his back, "If it's not much trouble, please excuse me."
The onlookers watched him, amused to see him strolling around the sooty rubble with his back slightly bent, examining the ground for something they believed did not exist. All of a sudden, he bent down to the ground and began rummaging through the blackened wooden shavings like a dog keen on a scent. With a quiet exclamation, Sigerson gently pulled out a shiny, partly golden object: a bent, deformed sovereign.
"You think that is the evidence?" sneered the inspector, shaking his head in disbelief.
"I do not think; I know it is. See this mark over here?" he asked, pointing to a large scratch in the middle of the coin as the policemen and Mr Wensworth stepped closer to get a better view of the coin in his hand, "This could only have been achieved by a hard strike with another object."
"It could have been a coincidence," responded the inspector who was clearly still skeptical, "It could have been hit accidentally and a worker might have carried this coin around and dropped it here."
"If someone really did carry a coin around with them, it would likely be in their pocket, which doesn't allow for objects to drop out so easily; there is more than one coin dropped as well, see?"
He reached into his pocket and took out nine more golden coins.
"See how they have the same mark?" he asked, showing them the disfigured coins. "It's nearly impossible for that to be a coincidence. Besides, the coins' diameters are only a slight bit larger than the pressure valve's opening, making them ideal for hammering in to block the steam, build up pressure, and eventually blowing up the boiler, setting everything up to look like an accident. And if you look even closer, you can see the edges have been badly scratched for all ten coins, indicating that they have scraped along something."
There was a long silence after Sigerson finished speaking. Since it was almost concluded that there had been no crime committed, this new development stunned everyone. The first to recover was Mr Wensworth, who stammered, "Then who could have possibly done it?"
Sigerson looked thoughtful for a moment then replied, "That's not for me to say right now. I think—" He turned to Inspector Branch unexpectedly, "With your permission, Inspector, I would like to continue this conversation somewhere preferably away from the cold."
Inspector Branch blinked rapidly and nodded; then turning to the other officers said, "You're all dismissed."
Watching the other policemen walk off into the distance, he said, "Well then, let's get going."
—
The smell of coffee and sugar wafted around the quaint cafe as the first three customers entered and took a seat. Promptly, a tidy waitress came and took their orders, leaving them again in deep silence.
"So," asked Mr Wensworth, who was eager for results, "You can figure out how someone blew up my boiler but can't tell me who did it?"
Sigerson stared at him in the eyes and replied softly, "I'm a detective, not a magician. But assuming that everything you've said so far is correct—"
"It is! I saw everyone with my own eyes and no one came in or out of the gates!"
"Then the only possible culprit would be your secretary, Mr Towns."
"Impossible!"
"I knew you would say that," sighed Sigerson, "But if you tell me everything: his background, personality, details; I can easily clear him of suspicion if he truly seems unrelated to the case."
"Ask me anything, and I'll reply the best I can."
"Thank you. Oh, and Inspector, if you have a pen and paper, it might be wise to take note of this. Please tell us, Mr Wensworth, when and how did you employ Mr Towns?"
"Well, I don't know what you mean by how I employed him; when my old secretary resigned, Winslow was recommended to me by a colleague and has been with me ever since he took up the job. Now, the date… I can't remember the exact date… It was about ten years ago, around this time of the year."
"Thank you. Now what about his personality? Please answer honestly, Mr Wensworth; this is all extremely important and will not be revealed to the public."
"His personality? Well, I suppose I could say he's exceptionally hardworking and quite efficient with his tasks. He's sharp but patient with his colleagues, even if they are not as hardworking as him. I've only seen him at work; outside of that, I'm not so sure, but I can assure you, he would not hurt anybody if he could help it."
"Thank you. Now, for the final question," Sigerson said softly, his green eyes piercing into Mr Wensworth's black ones. "Do you know if he has any reason to be in need of money? For example, was he in debt before?"
"Now that I think about it, yes, he used to be in debt from gambling and card playing all the time, although he paid it all off during his second year in my employment. Currently, I believe he has no immediate need of money, because he told me that he had stopped playing cards in order to focus on his work."
"Interesting…" mumbled Sigerson, closing his eyes. "Ah, I almost forgot!" he said aloud, making both men jump. "I meant to ask you; what exactly is the deal you are being offered by Mr Blight?"
"H–How do you know about this?" stammered Mr Wensworth.
"He had stated in a newspaper article that he was hoping to collaborate with you in the future."
"I can't tell you any of the details—"
"That's fine; just tell me this: how does he plan to split the profit from the collaboration?"
"He stated that it would be half mine and half his."
"Has he contacted you today, regarding this matter?"
"Yes, just before breakfast, a letter was sent to me wishing me to consider his offer."
"Thank you. That's all I have to ask you, sir."
The waitress returned, this time with a tray laden with sandwiches and three mugs of aromatic coffee. Mr Wensworth checked his watch and seeing that it was half past eight, got up, wished them luck on their investigation and departed, leaving his mug untouched. Inspector Branch fumbled around with his paper, then asked, "I don't understand. What was that all about? I fail to see how any of it relates to the case."
Sigerson picked up the mug in front of him and sipped slowly, looking at the inspector, considering whether he was able to be trusted. Finally, he returned his mug to the table and told him everything, deciding to trust him for now.
"I checked with the bank this morning; somebody had paid Mr Towns twenty thousand sovereigns by a cheque. Apparently, Mr Towns visited the bank a few days ago and used the cheque. The cheque's drawer is a middle-aged accountant, Patrick Hartland, who so far, does not seem to have any connection with Mr Towns. Now, Mr Hartland, whose modest salary is three thousand sovereigns a year, would not pay such a ludicrous amount of money to a stranger without a worthy cause. If this is so, is there any way that Mr Hartland could earn money without others noticing, or is he connected to anybody who could provide money for him? And most importantly, why did he pay Mr Towns that big amount; was he forced or did he do it for a hidden reason?"
The detective stopped, and sipped some coffee quietly. Inspector Branch took a sandwich and ate it, looking at Sigerson in the eyes, unsure if he should speak, when he continued, "Someone had recorded that Mr Hartland and Mr Blight had associated with each other before and are on close terms with each other. Therefore, since Mr Blight is one of the richest people in the country, there is a slim possibility that he is the provider of money."
Inspector Branch stared at Sigerson as though he was explaining some impossible physics theory in a classroom.
"I don't understand. Who do you suspect?"
Sigerson reached for another sandwich and replied calmly, "I suspect everyone. But out of the people related to the case so far, I think it is most likely to be Mr Blight, since his motive—"
"But he's going to share half his profit with Mr Wensworth, and since Mr Wensworth's factories' productivity have been reduced severely after a string of accidents, Mr Blight will get nearly nothing while still dividing the profit of his business. If anything, he'll be losing money."
"But what if his motive is not money?" murmured Sigerson.
Unsettled, the inspector asked, "What else could he gain?"
"Control. If Wensworth was out of the industry, Blight would have control over the majority of coal supplies, which would grant him immense power. But—"
He bit into his sandwich and tore out a chunk.
"These are all possibilities, nothing has been made certain yet, so I could be wrong."
The two of them sat in silence again, eating the sandwiches and sipping coffee, each of them in their own thoughts as the streets outside slowly crept to life with people hurrying to work and children riding their bicycles to school. In the distance, a bell rang, signalling a new day.
—
Loud tolls echoed past the forbidding iron fence and into Blight's private garden. Bright pungent flowers bloomed all around and intricately shaped bushes crowded the space around a magnificent marble fountain that adorned the centre of it like a valuable gem stuck in a royal crown. Blight strolled through, absorbing the sunlight and fragrant scents of the exotic flowers. He took a deep breath and sighed; there had been so much to work on lately and so little time to rest. One of his pieces on the board had to be sacrificed; the evidence and danger it possessed made it crucial for it to be removed…