Watchmen Of Watchmen (1)

Who watches the watchdogs of The League of Gentlemen.
-Decimus Iunius Iuvenalis-

I could understand well enough why Sir Fawcett had reacted so sharply.

Both in the world I once lived in, and in London Murim as well.
He was a reformer ahead of his time.

Last year, the moment Sir Fawcett took office as Postmaster General, he began a parcel service even common folk could use at low cost.

He also appointed anyone, regardless of sex, so long as they had the ability, allowing them to work at the post office.

Considering that the labor union the postmen formed in the year I launched a suicide attack with Moriarty was called the “Fawcett Association,” he was a superior beloved by his subordinates.

A blind man who grasped the flow of the age far more accurately than those who walked about with both eyes open.

In the world I knew, he passed away four years later, and afterward his name was engraved upon Kensal Green Cemetery’s Reformers Monument, one of the Magnificent 7, but in this world where Kung-Fu exists, he would surely survive far longer than the history I knew.

‘Reformers Monument, hm…….’

The name rather brings the Reform Club to mind. Was that mere coincidence?

“I know well how you have changed the Ministry Of Posts And Telegraphs, sir. And what you think of premodern relics like postal censorship, too.”

I added a few words to loosen Sir Fawcett’s wariness.

“I know full well you are not that sort of person. I only confirmed it once more, just in case.”

I understood Sir Fawcett’s feelings well.

Over the past 400 years, Britain’s postal system had undergone dramatic changes.

Since the Hundred Years War and the Wars Of Rose, royals and high officials spared no means to deliver secret letters swiftly and discreetly.

In the days when the Tudor dynasty ruled, the one who carried the king’s letters secured a high post at court, because the Master of The Post served as the king’s hands and feet, watching those who threatened the crown and cutting out the buds of treason early.

When it came to the republican era, when the first-generation of duelists, the Asian Kung-Fu Generation truly crossed over from the East, the postmen acting under Oliver Cromwell’s orders even took on the role of secret police, hunting out spies and traitors.

So for Sir Fawcett, who was devoted to reform, he could not possibly accept the suggestion of using the power of the current General Post Office for postal censorship.

We were living in Britain’s Golden Era, ruled by Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

Now that the role of secret police had been taken up by Buckingham’s British Intelligence Butler Agency and the palace maids, the east and west depot, Sir Fawcett would not wish to see the dark seventeenth-century history, when postmen were feared by all, come back to life.

I, too, am someone who believes there is no such thing as ‘good censorship,’ so if I wished to gain Sir Fawcett’s aid, I had to avoid inviting misunderstanding as much as possible.

“A kidnapping case, hm…… If a human life is on the line, I ought to cooperate. Of course.”

Meanwhile, the Postmaster General opened the envelope I had handed him and was confirming its contents by feeling the letter’s surface with his fingertips.

Perhaps because it was made by cutting out letters one by one from newspapers and magazines and pasting them on, he seemed to be reading the text with keen senses, using the fact that the printed letters rose in microscopic relief compared to the untouched parts.

If he had read the letter without relying on the sense in his fingers, I would not have been able to restrain my astonishment.

Sir Fawcett already seemed to live without relying on sound, and I wondered if he was nearing the realm of the mind’s eye.

At least, it was still a level with some humanity left.

To have achieved such a great attainment at an age nearing Heaven’s Bidding three years from now, I could only wonder how much stronger he would become.

“To say that a life is on the line is not wrong. The abducted one is an outstanding sculptor, so losing his fingers would be the same as dying. The culprit may grow tired of waiting, so if possible, it would be best to resolve it no later than today.”
“Neither you nor I are police, so I am reluctant to use public authority to solve a case…… but with the lives of my wife and countless London citizens owing you a debt, I cannot refuse. I will have tea prepared, so tell me the details.”

Sir Fawcett invited us to sit, then released a thread of Qi Frequency.

As we sat before the tea table, a secretary who had received the Direct Message brought three small bell cups and a teapot.

Lapsang Souchong, steaming hot.

Being high-grade, it wasn’t bitter, but the smoky scent was rather stimulating.

A tea with strong likes and dislikes, yet the minister seemed to enjoy it greatly.

Watson, meanwhile, seemed to find it wholly unsuited to her palate, forcing herself to keep her expression under control.

“The one kidnapped is an Italian sculptor living in the East End. The culprit, too, is presumed to be a man of the Italian mafia living in London.”

I savored the first cup, then went straight to the point.

As for the case, I had already explained it to Watson to some extent earlier, on the way to lunch.

That I must take in massive amounts of Yang Qi as naturally as breathing, to suppress the Pseudo Persona within me, and that for this purpose I had intended to process the horn of the Unicorn Salamander into a pipe.

And that, while holding a Sword Debate Chess match with Her Majesty Queen Victoria, I learned the name of the one who carved the Sword Debate Chess set was Beppo.

And lastly, that, when I went to the workshop, it was already after he had been abducted.

Watson was tense at the thought that we might have to face the notorious Italian mafia, yet perhaps because she had received ten years’ worth of boarding fees on her behalf, she seemed to have resolved to fulfill her role as assistant without fail, burning with fighting spirit at my side with an uncharacteristically soldierly face.

“He seems a fellow with a working brain, hiding his identity as much as possible, but precisely for that reason he will be off his guard, thinking the police cannot find him. He likely did not think to disguise the location from which he sent the letter. He would not have placed it directly in front of the workshop where the sculptor worked, so there is a strong chance he hid somewhere in the East End and used a nearby post box.”
“So you wish to pinpoint the location from which the culprit sent the letter.”
“Precisely.”

Sir Fawcett nodded.

“It is not impossible. The office boxers who handle mail sorting at the Central Post Office are, without exception, excellent talents.”
“Thank you. I was counting on it.”

It was the answer I had expected.

Previously, when we investigated the Phantom Fist case, we had witnessed the Central Post Office office boxers’ ability firsthand.

Their duties varied from sorting mail gathered from across Martial London by the delivery boxers according to set standards, recording information, sending telegrams in Morse code, and more.

The office boxers’ main Kung-Fu was Thunder Clap, a signature special move of the Kunlun Cathedral. In its original form, it is a technique of moving a hand wrapped in Brain Stopper at unseen speed to strike an enemy…… yet at the Central Post Office, they used it to carry out postal work.

At this point, one might understand that telegrams require sending Brain Stopper through, and thus tapping a signaling device with Thunder Clap, but some may wonder why they must also use the same Kung-Fu even when sorting mail.

The reason was simple.

Because Thunder Clap is a palm technique that pursues extreme precision and briskness through Kung-fu principles directly opposite to Pavlov’s conditioned counterattack art that I had faced before.

“Shall we go down together? It will be easier to confirm it directly with the boxers.”
“Is it truly all right for you to do that?”
“Thank you for your consideration.”

Perhaps because it was going so smoothly, Watson could not hide her delight.

As for me, I could only be grateful the investigation was easier than expected.

“David.”
“Coo-coo……!”

When Sir Fawcett called, a spirit beast homing pigeon as big as an Albatross flew up and perched on his shoulder.

At some point, it had picked up in its beak a blue uniform with broad Kunlun sleeves, one worn by the delivery boxers, specially made for a pigeon, from a small coat rack nearby, and had put it on.

That sort of outfit had not been there when I visited the office before, so it seemed to be a reward for distinguished merit in solving the Phantom Fist case.

“Follow me.”

Sir Fawcett returned the letter to me, then strode ahead without even a cane.
His image plainly different from before.

When this case ended, I wanted to meet him again without fail. To hear about the letter my master had entrusted to him and the matter of the Reform Club, and sit facing him for a long while to discuss Kung-fu.

“Holmes. May I ask just one thing?”

As we passed the second floor, where telegraph exchanges were in full swing, and went down to the first, Watson watched Sir Fawcett’s back with eyes full of awe, then turned her head toward me.

“I’ve been wondering, but wasn’t the envelope holding the ransom letter a common one you could obtain anywhere?”

Walking in step with her inconvenient gait, I nodded with genuine pleasure.

“As you say.”

Judging by her curiosity about this, Watson was surely growing step by step as a consulting detective’s assistant as well.

“Then…… no matter how detailed the office boxers keep records, wouldn’t it be impossible to find out where it was collected from? To be honest, it seems difficult even to find which office boxer sorted it.”
“There is always a method.”
“Truly?”
“Then look at the stamp affixed to the envelope.”
“…There’s a stamp mark on it?”

I nodded.

The mark Watson referred to was a date stamp impressed upon the postage stamp, recording the day the mail was accepted.

But of course, this alone couldn’t tell us which post box the culprit had dropped the letter into, nor through which office boxer’s hands it passed before reaching a delivery boxer.

What mattered was another clue visible beside the date stamp.

“The stamp matters, but look closely at the postage stamp.”

Watson took the envelope from me, brought the stamp right up to the tip of her nose, and began to scrutinize it.

“No matter how I look, I can’t tell……huh?”
“Seems you’ve found it.”
“I can faintly see rings, like tree-rings.”

What Watson found was a cancellation mark, used by the post office in my previous world to prevent stamps from being reused.

In the world I once lived in, they used a stamped mark, but in London Murim, it indicated that a stamp had been used by an entirely different method.

And that was—