Pale blue smoke drifted from Holmes' pipe, the unique, chilly scent of the Spider Lily seeming to lower the temperature of the surrounding air even further.

  "Come, let us see who is directing this farce titled 'The Lost Beloved Pet'."

  He didn't walk toward the spot where the footprints vanished. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode straight toward the butler.

  The butler, unnerved by the gaze, instinctively took a step back, clutching the handkerchief tighter against his nose. "What do you think you're doing? This is Van Horn Manor, not some place where you can run wild!"

  "Run wild? No, I am reading."

  Holmes closed the distance, his gray eyes zooming in like microscopes on the butler’s exposed left hand.

  "The tips of your left thumb and index finger show slight, irregular scorched yellow stains. How fascinating."

  Holmes sketched a circle in the air with a long, slender finger.

  "Stains of this nature usually suggest three possibilities: nicotine staining, nitric acid corrosion, or contact with a specific dye."

  "First, we exclude nicotine. You are right-handed—your pocket watch is on your left wrist, and you pointed the way with your right hand earlier. If you smoked, the stains would be on your right. Furthermore, open flames are strictly prohibited in this manor—observe the tables, bereft of ashtrays. As a butler, you wouldn't dare violate such a rule so flagrantly."

  "Second, nitric acid. Acid burns cause irreversible necrosis and peeling of the skin. Your skin remains intact; merely discolored. So, it isn't a common chemical reagent."

  "That leaves only one possibility: a specific substance with high permeability and volatility."

  Holmes suddenly leaned in and sniffed the butler's collar.

  "Sulfur. Although you've doused yourself in a rather potent cologne, that distinctive rotten-egg stench of sulfur operates at a molecular level; it is difficult to mask completely. This scent, combined with those scorched yellow stains... brings to mind only one substance that fits the criteria: unrefined 'Abyssal Demon Crystal Powder'."

  "This contraband is typically used to manufacture high-intensity stimulants or... as fodder for illegal magical creatures. But in New Babylon, the circulation of this substance is strictly controlled by the Necromancers' Guild."

  "Why would a butler, responsible for the daily management of a manor, be handling raw ingredients for illicit potions found only in the underground black market?"

  The butler's face drained of color, turning a sickly white. Cold sweat began to trickle down his temples.

  "I... I didn't..."

  "Don't be so quick to deny it," Holmes interrupted him, his gaze dropping to the inside of the butler's cuff.

  "There is a scratch, approximately three centimeters long, on the inside of your cuff. The cut is clean, yet the edges show microscopic signs of snagging and tearing. This wasn't cut by a knife, nor snagged by a branch. It was torn by something extremely sharp, possessing a hooked structure."

  "For instance... a genetically modified cyber-cat with titanium alloy claws?"

  "Furthermore, the scratch is on the inside of the cuff. This indicates that at the time, your hand was in a position of... extending forward, attempting to grab or soothe."

  Holmes turned around and pointed to the solid gold cat bed in the corner of the garden.

  "Three hours ago, the cat was eating afternoon tea here. You are the butler; you are responsible for feeding it. The cat knows you. It wouldn't scratch you without cause. Unless... you reeked of that scent which causes it extreme distress—the sulfur."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Conclusion one: Just before feeding the cat, you handled Abyssal Demon Crystal Powder. The cat smelled it, had a stress reaction, scratched you, and fled."

  The butler collapsed to the ground, his lips trembling. "No... I didn't chase it away... it ran on its own..."

  Holmes ignored the man's breakdown and turned his gaze to the center of the garden, where Mr. Van Horn was still pacing anxiously.

  "As for this gentleman..." Holmes blew a smoke ring. "Your anxiety is also quite intriguing."

  "In the past five minutes, you have checked your watch seven times. And your eyes unconsciously drift toward the manor's side gate—the entrance for private vehicles. This suggests you are waiting for someone, or... worrying about someone."

  "Today is Friday. Judging by the 'St. George's Public School' flag hanging on the manor wall, your son attends boarding school. But today there is a cricket match—the alumni badge on your chest reveals the schedule. As an alumnus, you would know the match ended at three o'clock. It is now five. Calculating for travel time, he should have arrived home by now."

  "But he hasn't appeared. Or rather... he came back, but he didn't use the front door."

  Holmes suddenly crouched down. From the dirt at the edge of the lawn, he used tweezers to pick up a metallic particle so tiny it was barely visible to the naked eye, glinting coldly in the sun.

  "Look at this." He handed the particle to John.

  John took it. It was a screw, smaller than a grain of rice.

  "This is a micro-fastening screw for high-precision prosthetics," Holmes explained. "This specific cross-slot model is used exclusively in the latest 'Titan' class juvenile exoskeleton prosthetics. These limbs are exorbitantly expensive, usually designed to enhance strength or... compensate for congenital disabilities."

  "Your son has mobility issues, correct?" Holmes looked at Mr. Van Horn.

  Mr. Van Horn’s face darkened, a silent admission.

  "A disabled boy possessing a pair of mechanical legs with immense power. A contradictory mix of strength and fragility."

  Holmes looked at the Van Horn couple, his tone turning icier, like a judge reading a verdict.

  "He is in adolescence—an age that craves recognition, craves to be seen. But every time he returns to this house, what does he find?"

  Holmes pointed to the overturned plate of exquisite pastries on the ground, then at the solid gold cat bed.

  "The mother pours all her love into a cat, even weeping and threatening self-harm because the beast won't eat. The father cares only that the banquet isn't ruined, cares only for the family's face. In this house, the status of a pet ranks higher than that of a disabled heir."

  "Your reactions earlier said it all: When I said the cat was lost, the Madam broke down; when I suggested the Young Master might have returned, your first reaction, Sir, was not concern, but a frown—you were worried his disabled appearance would make you a laughingstock in front of today's guests, weren't you?"

  Mr. Van Horn’s face turned a shade of liver-red. He opened his mouth but couldn't find the words to refute it.

  "Here, 'Face' outweighs kinship. A pet's pedigree outweighs a child's mental health. There is no proper guidance in this home, only indifference, neglect, and alienation piled high with money."

  "Based on this twisted family structure and psychodynamics, there is only one conclusion: Jealousy."

  "This jealousy transforms into a desire for destruction. He wanted to destroy the cat, not because he hates cats, but because he hates the perfect replacement that stole all the attention."

  "He wanted to ruin it, just like ruining a perfect ornament in this hypocritical home."

  Holmes spun around, his finger pointing like a sword toward an inconspicuous manhole cover in the corner of the garden, hidden by carefully trimmed bushes.

  "He came back. The cat, spooked by the scent on the butler, ran blindly toward the edge of the garden. He intercepted it there."

  "With those mechanical legs—which you paid a fortune for just to make him look 'normal'—he kicked the cat that symbolizes your vanity into the filthiest place in this house."

  "Mr. Butler, the reason you concealed the sulfur smell is that you know what the Young Master is secretly doing with that powder—perhaps modifying his prosthetic's power source? You are an accomplice. So when the cat went missing, you dared not speak up; you could only act out this play."

  Dead silence.

  Mrs. Van Horn’s crying stopped abruptly. She stared blankly at her husband, fear appearing in her eyes for something other than the cat for the first time. The arrogant tycoon, meanwhile, looked as if his spine had been removed, slumpingly into his chair.

  John looked at the manhole cover, feeling a chill rise from the soles of his feet.

  This wasn't just a lost cat case.

  It was a horror story about twisted relationships, covered-up jealousy, and violence within a luxury mansion.

  "Open it," Holmes commanded, his voice carrying an undeniable authority.

  John walked over and heaved the heavy manhole cover open.

  A pungent, rotting stench surged out.

  But mixed within that smell was a faint, almost inaudible sound...

  "Meow..."

  The sound was weak, as if coming from the depths of hell.

  Holmes walked to the edge of the well and glanced down into the deep darkness.

  "It's down there."

  He turned back to look at the beautifully dressed masters of the house, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

  "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

  "Now, the man paying the bill—John—we need to go down and retrieve the poor little thing. As for you lot..."

  He swept a cold gaze over the group of "high-society" people.

  "Be glad I only find cats. I don't judge souls."

  [Message from Singularity]

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