Ulysses’s blunt reply caught Yvette off-guard.

  “Well? Not another supernatural affair this time?” He unfolded the handkerchief cradling paint fragments, examining a fleck between his gloved fingers.

  “Must every mystery involve the occult?” she retorted, then flushed—most of her visits did revolve around Veil-related troubles. “…This is merely a theft. A mundane one.”

  Mr. Artois had verified it, after all. Surely nothing lurked beneath.

  “…Most likely.” She hastily amended, wary of tempting fate.

  “Splendid. What thief merits your interest, then?”

  “The so-called ‘Gentleman Bandit’—his London debut, it seems. Even the rags haven’t sniffed it out. Disappointed it’s not eldritch horrors, Lord Ulysses? Such a work-shy attitude! Consider it a public service—we avert disasters before commoners blunder into them. Each resolved case makes the world safer, yes?”

  “Hmph. Rogue occultists multiply like rats. Spot one, a dozen nest nearby. I’d prefer they emulate their discreet kin and stay hidden.” He crumbled a paint speck, inhaled its scent. “Oil paint residue. Requiring analysis?”

  She nodded. “Found at the crime scene. With other evidence… if we could date these flakes…” Modern labs used carbon dating, but Ulysses’s uncanny methods prioritized composition over chronology. Without proof, her theory remained speculation.

  “An experiment, then.” He touched the fragment to his tongue, eyes closing as if deciphering a vintage wine.

  Moments later: “No earlier than 1809.”

  “Precisely!” Her deduction confirmed. “But how the year? You said yourself it required testing—”

  “Chromium yellow. Synthetic pigment—French chemists concocted it in 1809. Earlier, artists relied on orpiment, antimony… or less savory sources.”

  “Such as… mummy dust?”

  “Ever encounter ‘Indian yellow’? Sun-baked cow urine. Thank your stars the forger chose modernity over tradition.”

  Yvette bit her lip. Had this been a Titian original, bovine extracts might’ve tainted the palette. Poor Ulysses.

  Yet he’d sampled the fragment without complaint—despite risks—though no supernatural threads entangled this case.

  He really is kindness itself.

  Midnight shadows swallowed Baron Pedro’s estate. As scullery maids snored exhaustedly, his inner cadre—the butler, valet, and fellow Iberian conspirators—huddled in conspiratorial whispers.

  “The puppet?” the butler demanded.

  “Distracted by rented companionship,” the valet drawled. A habitual ruse.

  “No mishaps. These next days are pivotal.”

  “The dolt’s besotted with some actress,” the valet sneered. “Terrified we’ll revoke his role.”

  Their “baron” was a penniless rake, groomed for aristocratic mimicry. Funds flooded his facade—extravagant parties, gifts for gullible bluebloods—to bait merchants into extending credit.

  Nobles lived on tick, debts mounting like Beau Brummell: that arbiter of fashion who’d exiled duchesses on whims, yet fled creditors when royal favor waned. His possessions—auctioned as “a gentleman’s effects”—embodied their scheme’s endgame.

  “Baron Pedro” owed thousands, but merchants trusted the silver-tongued exotic “noble.” Soon, an “irreplaceable masterpiece” would “vanish”—while the genuine article, bought with prior scams’ dwindling profits, awaited discreet foreign sale. The forgery aging by fireplace heat? A prop. Insurance would cover the “loss,” pure plunder.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Nerves frayed even their stoic butler.

  “The English revere titles. They’ll never see through it!” the housekeeper chuckled.

  “Insurers begged to underwrite ‘His Lordship’!”

  In France or Spain, merchants distrusted threadbare nobles. But Albion’s sparser aristocracy retained mystique—bankrupt lords married merchant heiresses, retaining haughty airs while lining pockets. A perfect mark.

  “Today’s inspectors troubled me. Poorly disguised—fine tobacco, unweathered pipes. One examined the fireplace.”

  “Private detectives hired by insurers, no doubt! Thankfully, they ‘solved’ our planted clues. Without proof of the ‘Gentleman Bandit,’ courts might blame our negligence. Now, the phantom thief steals the narrative—and the payout!”

  “All proceeds smoothly,” the butler conceded. Litigation delays would bleed funds on their decoy’s antics. “A few days more. Should the puppet overstep…”

  “—a sack, a stone, the Thames,” the valet finished. “He’s infatuated, docile. More afraid than we are.”

  As the conspirators huddled to finalize their schemes, the rattling of carriages shattered the quiet—multiple vehicles approaching.

  The housekeeper glanced through the window. The lead carriage bore Baron Pedro’s crest; those following displayed the London Police insignia.

  "Why are they here?" he murmured, uneasy. "Did those meddling detectives report the rooftop 'clue'?"

  "Stay sharp. Don’t slip up."

  When the carriages halted, the fraudsters watched their unwitting puppet, Baron Pedro, descend under police escort, his bluster echoing through the halls:

  "This is an outrage! I’ll have the House of Lords flanking my letters to Scotland Yard! You’ll rue this harassment!"

  Pedro’s ignorance made him the perfect pawn—a brash aristocrat lookalike. His interrupted evening escapades now fueled his dragon-like wrath, much to the conspirators’ relief: The police know nothing.

  "Your complaints may proceed after the investigation, Baron," an officer countered coolly.

  The operation, ordered by Chief Superintendent Alto, stemmed from Mr. Fisher’s tip-off. Fisher’s uncle, Sir Ulysses—a confidant of the Duke of Lancaster—held true power. A foreign baron’s threats meant little against such influence.

  As Pedro raged onward, the housekeeper spotted a youth alighting from the last carriage. Though differently attired, he recognized the shrewd investigator who’d scrutinized the fireplace earlier.

  "You’re—"

  "Merely an advisor," the youth interjected with a disarmingly polite smile—one that chilled the housekeeper’s bones.

  Steady now, he told himself.

  The original painting had been relocated pre-"theft," its existence known only to inner-circle members. The forged copy, after being aged by fireplace heat, had been incinerated that very night. Without evidence, investigators would only find a phantom crime. Even if Pedro’s identity unraveled, the worst outcome was his expulsion from society—a trivial consequence for the conspirators.

  Meanwhile, Yvette strategized.

  The attic’s false clue and the carpet’s frame-shaped indentations pointed to forgery via fireplace. The housekeeper’s claim about "dampness" rang hollow—the room was dry, ventilated, and under his omnipresent watch.

  Confronting him with modern pigment analysis? Futile. He’d blame the "Gentleman Thief," and Ulysses’ advanced methods couldn’t be disclosed.

  Thus, a gamble…

  "Officer, sequester each foreign servant for questioning. The thief needed an insider."

  "Starting with whom?" The officer eyed the housekeeper.

  "Not him. His cooperation speaks volumes. I’ll question him myself." Yvette’s friendly shoulder squeeze made the ringleader’s pulse spike.

  For thirty agonizing minutes, Yvette paraded the housekeeper through the mansion, lobbing trivial questions while his paranoia about loose-lipped accomplices crescendoed.

  Nearing the interrogation room—the fireplace chamber—muffled voices leaked through the door. The housekeeper panicked: Does he know?

  "Let’s discuss Spain elsewhere. I adore Iberian ham…" Yvette steered him away, grip firm.

  Suddenly, the housekeeper’s mind blanked—then flooded with a damning false memory: his valet’s voice, crackling through the door, confessing to forgery and blaming a shadowy mastermind.

  Treachery!

  Whirling toward Yvette’s serene smile, he cracked: "Officers! I’ll confess everything!"

  ……

  Days later, the club roasted Oleander over newspaper headlines:

  "Bravo, Oleander! Wolfsbane’s casting you as the blundering detective in Phantom Thief!"

  "‘A pompous fool whose errors require Chevalier’s corrections.’ Fitting, no?"

  Oleander gulped his tea, sputtering: "Vultures!"

  "We didn’t nearly wreck the case," Monkshood sneered. "Thank Chevalier—and Wolfsbane’s doctor character—for salvaging it!"

  Wolfsbane cornered Yvette: "How’d you confirm the forgery? The fireplace wasn’t proof. You visited Sir Ulysses, didn’t you?"

  "Modern pigments contain chemicals. My uncle identified them. He’d prefer anonymity."

  "Intriguing." Wolfsbane scribbled, ignoring Henbane’s remark about the fraudsters’ baffling mutual betrayal—a rift sown by Yvette’s implanted memory.

  "I’m adding two recurring roles," Wolfsbane declared. "An envious rival detective and Chevalier’s coroner ally—perfect for grisly scenes unbecoming of a noble."

  A detective-doctor duo? Yvette’s eye twitched. Wolfsbane, you’re plagiarizing the future!