Chapter 52: The 1924 Train Murder Case (25)

Oh.
I had completely forgotten about that.

“What about the painter?” Tang Mu turned her suspicions toward Hunter. “If we’re focusing on the ‘restroom’ as the key point, then the painter seems even more suspicious, doesn’t he?”

“There was a period when he was out of our sight.”

Judging by the direction he went, it seemed he’d gone to the restroom. And his seat was so close to the victim’s. Kill someone, pretend to go to the restroom to dispose of the murder weapon… The chain of clues was quite complete.

“So it’s Hunter and Tang Mu—both of you are suspects!” Bartholomew pointed at the two of them. “Now, explain what grudges you each had with the deceased. Be detailed; this is our most powerful basis for judging whether you’re lying!”

“I’ll go first, then,” Hunter unexpectedly confessed.

Tang Mu hadn’t anticipated that.

“I did have a grudge against the deceased,” he said. “Perhaps you don’t know? The victim, Augustine, was not only a notorious expert in chemical biology, but he also established a black market chain trafficking children and women. He had plenty of ‘goods’ under his control for sale… My wife and daughter were both taken…”

As he spoke of this, even the artist who had spent a lifetime immersed in art lost his composure.

While confessing his crime, he took out his portable canvas, paints, and brushes. He mixed and smeared crimson, ultramarine, burnt sienna—furiously, without any order.

Before long, the painting he produced radiated an overwhelming sense of unease, agitation, oppression, and revulsion.

Painting is the most direct expression of a painter’s emotions.

And red, above all, stirs the strongest emotions.

…

“My wife was the daughter of a friend of my father’s. Though we weren’t truly in love, and she never really supported my painting career, my art brought in some money and kept our modest family afloat, so she never complained much. But I knew she resented me. She blamed me for pouring all my time into painting, neglecting her and our child.”

“One day, she took our child on an outing not far from home…”

“I was so absorbed in my work that I missed the kidnapper’s letter. By the time I realized and went to the address, it was already too late.”

“So how did you come by the contents of the syringe?” Bartholomew pressed on.

Hunter answered smoothly, his chain of evidence seemingly flawless.

“My painting skills are well known, so I’m often invited to teach at various schools. When students paint skulls, they need real models. That’s why I sometimes procure genuine bones through certain channels.”

“The doctor who handled the bones—I met him during this period.”

“And they taught you how to extract cyanide?” Bartholomew asked.

Hunter nodded. “Yes.”

After Hunter finished, all eyes turned to Tang Mu.

Their gazes seemed to say: if Tang Mu could not provide a motive and a plausible method, then she must be the player. And players, by the game’s rules, would be eliminated.

The NPCs would never all vote for the real killer, because if they guessed right, the player would win, not the NPCs.

If Tang Mu confessed to being the killer from the start, without implicating another suspect, both the player and the NPCs would have no choice but to vote for her.

Her fate would still be death.

This was not the usual NPC strategy—they would never play themselves and their allies out of the game.

So Tang Mu immediately retorted, “You’re lying, Hunter. If you truly had a wife and daughter, why is there nothing among your personal belongings related to them? If you were really out for revenge, you’d surely know that after killing Augustine, the police would come for you. Facing death, wouldn’t you long for your wife and child?”

“Where are the items related to them? Surely you could produce one or two things? If not, everything you’ve said is a lie!”

“I’m not lying!” Hunter snapped. “I painted portraits of my wife and daughter. They’re on display at the London Art Gallery right now! If you want to see them, wait two days!”

Two days later?

Ha! Two days from now, who knows if any of them will still be alive.

“Tang Mu, you’re a suspect too. What about your motive?” Bartholomew asked.

But Tang Mu had no motive.

She had simply received a task from the Translator: before the countdown ended, she had to inject the unknown liquid in her syringe into Augustine’s body.

If she succeeded, she’d earn 2,000 points.

If she failed, she would die instantly.

That was the only reason she’d acted.

As for a motive, the Translator hadn’t given her any hints.

But, judging from the victim’s background as described by Bartholomew, Mackey, and Hunter, Tang Mu had already pieced together a story of her own.

“Fine. I know there’s no escaping this. I’ll just say it,” Tang Mu said, as though she found it painful to revisit her past wounds.

But, forced by the situation, she had to explain.

“You all know, I’m just the adopted daughter of Baron John Joseph. But none of you knows what kind of life I used to live.”

She spoke, her eyes reddening, tears brimming.

“My parents died young. I grew up with my uncle. But he was never good at taking care of people. Every time he made mashed potatoes, they were as black as charcoal, utterly inedible. To fill my stomach, I had to go out and buy snacks for myself.”

“That’s when danger found me.”

Tang Mu launched into her performance, face streaked with tears.

Her acting stunned the NPCs and the players alike.

“A sack came down over my head out of nowhere. For over a year, I was always hungry, always cold, beaten every day. Forced to learn all sorts of filthy tricks to please men. Because I was stubborn and disobedient, I was beaten especially hard each time.”

“Until one day, Augustine arrived at the slave market with his soldiers…”

“He picked you out right away?” someone asked.

“No, he was the owner of the slave market.” Tang Mu’s voice turned icy at the words “slave market owner,” as if she really bore a deep hatred for the deceased. “He chose many young girls that day. A few days later, the girls were returned.”

“The oldest were thirteen or fourteen, the youngest only six. When they came back, they were covered in wounds—no part of them unscathed. Even the most delicate parts of their bodies were terribly torn. Not a single girl who was taken away survived.”

“I knew if I didn’t find a way to escape, I’d end up just as wretched as they did.”