THIEF OF BREAN (VOL-1)|✓

INKLINGS- XIV

"There have been no missing reports registered in any of the constabularies," Giles told him after he had read through the mails sent by the constabularies.

Well, that had wrapped up the day in a bigger muddle than it was already.

"What about the Summers' case? Do you think it was another murder made to like an accident?" He asked Giles as they set to leave.

"It was surely drunk and trip. We found empty bottles of wine in her bedroom. She had stomached them before slipping down the staircases. The body was in bloat when we found it. The doctors says she had been dead for about four days."

"What about the servants and other family members?"

"Mrs Summers was a widow. Husband passed away two years ago. Daughter has been married off to Rosebourne. Son lives away with his family in Linberg. She was one of those women who live their lives in balls and banquets happening all-around the country, never really get along with their husbands or look after the kids. When the mansion servants were not paid for three months or so, they had left the Summers' estate for good-this was a year and half ago." He chuckled drily. "I doubt if that is what being a higher-crust all about... banquets, wines and miserable deaths?"

"Nah, not all." Carl dismissed. Bel was not. She was a beautiful, caring and generous lady who loved her children and paid the helps and the farm workers right. She was never corrupted by the riches.

"Oh, they all are the same, the men the women, spoilt by the easy money. I guess you did not have the pleasure to grow up as a domestic help in an estate, Detective. Lucky you."

"No. I grew up in orphanage."

Giles' pressed his lips in guilt and murmured a sorry. Carl had thought that he would stop after the apology. But an apology was never a word that meant the person was going to stop hurting you. Rather it was, almost always, an intimation for more apologies to follow. And Giles, the tactless army hound, was decided to throw in some more sorry words when he set to delve into the deep rooted woes of Carl's life.

Carl never had a memory of his deceased parents. Hell, he did not even have their names. Whatever world he knew had started from the hallways of the orphanage run by the order of nuns of the Albine Monastery in the little town of Elberth.

He was only told that he was a year old when the monastery took him in, which was indeed the time when Cinnabar riots had wreaked havoc in the country. His father was told to be killed in the same while he was off rescuing people stuck in the flood caused by the Vermits when they busted a water dam. His mother had died in the same. But they never talked about her in the orphanage. It was always how brave and selfless his father had been. However, he on the other hand, always wanted to know about his mother, at least get to hear a word about her when they spoke verses length about his father.

Then when he was twelve, he had been so consumed by the thought of finding about his parents that he had decided on becoming a detective. However, it wasn't easy as it seemed. For years now, Carl had been using his rank as an officer of intelligence to procure his own birth records from the infirmaries, if not, he'd go after the resident records. All looking for one name-Carleton Lavely, so he could find about his parents by tracing back. But strangely, he had never come across one person with the second name as Lavely, not just in own province of Bramwich, but in most part of Aristos.

There existed no person, living or dead, by that name. But Carl had not given up on his parents yet. As a son, he had a right know about them. If not their whole life, then at least their names.

It was late in the night when they drove off the headquarters. It was snowing again and much of the time was wasted staring at the Vermits clear the road blockades. Carl wished he could go to the Summers' mansion and looked at the case himself. He was having a strange inkling about it. But he could not get into the case until the General thought it needed an LEA officer.

The army personnel were always hubristic of their intelligence. It was seldom that they thought they were just fit for combats. Moreover, it was a woman from the upper crust, killed by alcohol-a matter of great shame indeed. The family was certainly going to go to any extremes in order to maintain discretion, so as to avoid themselves from embarrassments at the elite gatherings. And no one would know if it was an accident or another murder made to look like an accident. Not until another death would wake the shit out of these drowsing army officers.