Blue Eyes Under Fog Capital Bridge (7)

The girls' smiles were innocent and pure.

At this moment, however, their black-and-white photographs were pinned to the wall like funeral portraits, accompanied by dates and locations.

"Is this... a list of victims?" Lestrade's voice trembled.

He suddenly felt a sense of dread about looking at that wall, terrified that he might see a familiar name or face among them.

Ye Yan picked up a notebook from the table, flipped through a few pages, and his expression grew increasingly grim.

"It's not just a list; there are detailed records of the 'hunts'." He looked at the notebook, the crookedly scrawled word "Collection" on the cover appearing particularly jarring.

Opening the first page, Ye Yan's expression turned deathly pale.

"Blue Eyes, No. 1: Emma, Whitechapel District Workhouse, September 12, 1858..."

Flipping further, the dense, meticulous records were chilling. There were lists of victims, methods of operation, and even missing persons notices clipped from newspapers.

Smith narrowed his eyes and stepped into the dark room as well.

He scanned the markings on the wall quickly and let out a cold laugh: "Thirty years of criminal activity, and aside from that noble girl's disappearance twenty years ago, Scotland Yard didn't notice a thing."

Hearing this, Lestrade's body shuddered.

Daphne...

He closed his eyes, his grip on the prisoner's arm tightening until his veins bulged, drawing a cry of pain from the man.

"Speak!"

Lestrade suppressed the urge to beat the man senseless and roared at him: "Where did you hide the bodies of those girls, and who is the mastermind behind this?"

"It hurts! It hurts! Let go!"

The man's face twisted; even with his secret room discovered, he had no intention of telling the truth.

Smith smiled and walked slowly toward him. He casually rolled up his sleeves, revealing his sturdy forearms.

"Detective Lestrade, you won't get any answers asking like that." He grabbed the man by the hair, clenched his fist, and delivered a clean left hook to the man's stomach: "You have to do it like this."

The man let out a pained groan, his entire body trembling uncontrollably: "How did you even find me? I specifically left a decoy."

Lestrade was stunned and immediately intervened: "Wait, you cannot use torture on a prisoner; that is..."

Before he could finish, Smith shook out his wrist and delivered another heavy blow to the man's stomach.

"This isn't torture, Detective Lestrade."

The dull thud of the impact echoed in the room, followed by the man's painful retching. Smith shook his hands and pulled a pair of uniquely shaped iron pliers from his inner pocket.

"I am interrogating him; can you not see that? Leave him to me. Since you police and detectives rely on clues to find the truth, I can just as easily pry the truth out of the prisoner's mouth through interrogation."

Lestrade looked at the strange tool in Smith's hand, his eyelids twitching.

"Are you sure this is a proper interrogation?"

At this, Smith smiled.

"Oh, Detective, this is merely a means to pursue the truth. While the process is important, I have always believed that the result matters far more than the process, don't you agree?"

Lestrade fell silent.

Ye Yan, having closed the notebook, stood to the side with an expressionless face; he did not care what methods Smith used for the interrogation.

Does a piece of trash who doesn't deserve to be called human deserve any humanitarian concern?

The basement of the Rose Manor, belonging to the Butler Family.

This hidden space was located in the oldest part of the Rose Manor, its entrance known only to the direct bloodline of the Butler Family.

A middle-aged man lay reclined on a sofa.

He slowly exhaled a puff of smoke, the gray mist swirling in the air and blurring his pale, sickly features.

"What a beautiful color..."

The man's moss-green eyes narrowed slightly, a look of near-obsession on his face as he admired the glass bottle in his hand.

On the shelves behind him, dozens of similar glass containers were neatly arranged.

Each was labeled with a date and a brief note.

The unidentified liquid in the bottle swayed gently with his movements; upon closer inspection, one could see two round objects floating up and down inside.

The round objects possessed a strange shade of blue.

It was neither the color of the sky nor a gemstone, but rather a hue existing somewhere between life and decay.

It was as if the ocean had been forcibly stripped from the sunlight, imprisoned in a tiny glass cage, gradually fading, rotting, and finally solidifying into a pool of stagnant, horrifying, putrid blue.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door was pushed open with a bang.

The man's hand jerked, nearly dropping his treasure. He was about to curse, but when he saw who had entered, the rage was forcibly suppressed.

"Father? Why are you—"

Marquess Butler stood at the doorway, his silver-gray hair combed back with meticulous precision.

His deep green eyes swept across the room full of collections, finally coming to rest on the glass bottle in the man's hand.

"Put those disgusting things down, Cyril." The Marquess's voice was incredibly low. "We have more pressing matters."

Cyril slowly placed the glass bottle back into the display cabinet, his movements as gentle as if he were settling a sleeping infant.

By the time he turned to face his father, his face had already resumed that aristocratic, indifferent expression.

"What matter could possibly make you condescend to visit my studio?"

Cyril deliberately used the word "studio"; he knew his father loathed his obsession with these collections, but he felt that it was his father who failed to understand what art was.

The Marquess strode into the room and said expressionlessly, "Baron has been arrested."

The color drained from Cyril's face in an instant.

"That's impossible!" His voice was hoarse. "Baron has never been discovered all these years, he only needed to erase the traces—"

"And yet, that is the reality!"

The old Marquess cut him off, a flash of disgust in his eyes. "That base-born bastard—I told you long ago that his existence would bring shame upon the family, yet you refused to listen, insisting on keeping him to do your dirty work!"

"So, what does that have to do with us?"

Cyril turned toward the display cabinet, his fingers nervously stroking the rows of glass bottles. "Baron won't talk; you must remember that his two sons are still in our hands."

The Marquess suddenly stepped forward and grabbed Cyril by the wrist, his grip so forceful that Cyril winced in pain.

"Don't play the fool, son. Baron knows about this basement. If he breaks in the interrogation room, not even the Butler Family will be able to protect you."

Having said that, his gaze swept over the glass bottles containing eyeballs. "You must dispose of all these things!"

"No!" Cyril shook his head, his voice sharp and resolute. "I will not destroy them. Father, these are works of art; you simply don't understand their value!"

"Value?"

The old Marquess raised his voice, taking a step toward Cyril. "I tolerate your eccentricities because you are my son, but if these things are discovered, you will bring disgrace upon the entire Butler Family!"

"Lestrade..." Cyril spat the name out through gritted teeth. "That meddlesome detective! You don't understand, my collection is..."

A loud slap cut Cyril's words short.

His head tilted to one side, a red palm print blooming on his pale cheek.

"Enough!" the Marquess roared. "Either destroy these disgusting things, or I will cast you out of the Butler Family!"

Cyril slowly turned his head back.

After a moment of silence, he lowered his head. "You are right, Father. I will dispose of them."

The Marquess eyed his son suspiciously. "Do you promise?"

"I swear it on the honor of the Butler Family."

"Very well. I will find a way to handle the matter of Baron." The old Marquess turned toward the door, then paused. "It must be finished before dawn, Cyril. Do not test my patience."

The heavy wooden door closed once more, leaving Cyril alone in the dim basement. He stood in place for a long time, then slowly walked toward the innermost glass cabinet.

There sat his most precious collection.

A pair of mismatched eyes, one as deep blue as the ocean, the other as clear as an ice crystal.

They belonged to a beautiful girl named Daphne.

"Daphne..."

Cyril whispered the name, his fingers tracing the outline of the glass bottle. "How could I ever let you leave me? Father said to destroy the evidence, but he didn't say all of it."

He murmured to himself, a strange smile curling the corners of his lips. Then, he turned and walked toward the workbench to prepare the dissolving solution.