I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Richard unfolded the sheet of paper in the oil paper; it was something that old Big had copied by hand.

The handwriting was extremely small, crammed onto that small piece of official letter paper, densely packed.

An excerpt from a register of unidentified corpses; a hand-drawn map of Briston North.

The canal and the small river called "Black Ditch" were drawn with exceptional detail.

Thirteen red dots were marked along the river, with the date and number written next to each dot.

A record of entry and exit from the "Mutual Aid Funeral Association".

Where were the deceased collected from, where were they buried, the name of the person in charge, and the amount charged (most of which are marked "free").

The last document is an analysis report written by Old Big himself, titled "The Pattern of Choosing People."

Richard turned the pages one by one.

[博闻] has memorized every single page, down to the punctuation marks.

Mrs. McNeill stood at the other end of the table, clutching the scalpel in her hand, motionless.

"You know what he's doing," Richard said.

"I know he's investigating unidentified corpses in the North District." Mrs. McNeil put the scalpel back into the enamel tray.

"He mentioned to me two years ago that the number of registered bodies in the North District was increasing, but I didn't take it seriously at the time."

"And then?"

"Later, on that night in the western suburbs, you and I saw the body of the one who answered the call down there."

She wiped the water off the edge of the enamel plate.

"From that night on, I knew that Bigrocha's stuff was not simple."

Richard clutched the penny tightly in his palm.

"The teacher had already given Bigelow a share."

Mrs. McNeil sighed softly.

"【The Hermit, Upright】Take the lamp out of your chest and place it elsewhere."

"【The Hanged Man - Upright】He puts his feet into the noose and hangs himself upside down."

"【Judgment - Upright Position】The deceased speaks for himself, he wants to let himself speak, and turn himself into evidence."

"He studied with his teacher for over ten years, but failed the spiritual vision test, his divination accuracy was substandard, and he could only recognize seals but not set them up."

"The teacher assigned him to the branch office as a coroner and gave him a job."

"For fifteen years, he was the most inconspicuous one among his students."

If he went out and said, "I am Mrs. Mary's student," no one would laugh, because very few people knew him.

"But in these fifteen years..." She paused.

"He counted the corpses."

"Every unidentified corpse carried in from the North District passed through his hands."

"The number of deaths in which year, the month of death, the street where they died... these are things that the big shots in the capital can't see."

Professor Mortimer scanned the web from top to bottom, looking at its overall structure.

Wentworth was poking around from the outside in, targeting the anchor points that had already popped out.

"But what about those who didn't show themselves? What about those nameless corpses that died quietly by the riverbank, in rented rooms, or in the corners of factories?"

"Bigelow faces dead people every day who are invisible to the entire system."

"Professor Mortimer looked down from a high place, cleared out a few dozen lines, and then left."

The framework of that network, the anchors and nodes hidden beneath the city… from above, mixed in with the daily death statistics of hundreds of thousands of people, it's simply noise.

Richard closed his eyes.

"A fortune teller is a detective."

His voice was completely hoarse when he uttered those words.

"The last piece of evidence the detective ever handed over... was his own death."

Richard laid out the documents from the oil paper package one by one on the iron table next to the autopsy table.

Mrs. McNeil lit a lamp on the other side.

First, look at the excerpt from the register.

The data for the first three years did not fluctuate much.

In winter, a few homeless people freeze to death; in summer, a few unclaimed temporary workers die in mine accidents—this is the baseline of a normal industrial city.

Prices started to rise from the fourth year, but the rise was not even.

Old Big circled his excerpt in red pen.

The circled bodies all shared a common characteristic: the location of death was within 300 yards of the nearest water surface of the canal or ditch.

Richard unfolded the map.

The thirteen red dots that Old Big drew were arranged along the canal and the Black Ditch.

Richard superimposed it on another image stored in his mind.

Mrs. McNeill psychically drew thirteen points on the corpse of the responding head.

They overlap perfectly, not a single point is different.

Two clues point to the same network.

Richard pulled out the last sheet of paper: "The Rules of Choosing People".

"Those who were chosen share six common characteristics:"

1. Poor;

2. Living alone or semi-living alone (without daily visits from immediate family members);

3. Suffering from chronic diseases (lung, heart, joints, any type of disease);

4. Poor neighborly relations (high probability of being discovered more than three days after death);

5. Mutual aid organizations that are not registered with any diocese;

6. The location of death was within 300 yards of the nearest body of water in the canal/black ditch.

"Those who met all six criteria were all taken in by the 'Mutual Aid Funeral Association' after their deaths."

"The funeral service handled one of the deceased's cases, and the encoffining process did not conform to industry standards in one aspect."

In the funeral home's encoffining record, the consecration section was filled with "Reverend Hawkins of the Parish of St. Andrew".

Reverend Hawkins is a real person, but he told me that he has never been to a funeral or burial site in the past three years.

"Every consecration performed on a corpse is a sham."

"Legal representative of Mutual Aid Funeral Association: John Reeve."

Registered in 1901, with the registered address at No. 14, Yunhe Road, North District.

"The neighbors all agree on his character: he's a good person. He's become even kinder since he had a serious illness more than ten years ago, but he's also become a bit more reserved."

The last paragraph contains only one sentence.

"The harvest area is a funeral parlor; poor families bring their dead here, and the funeral parlor 'helps'..."

I'm not able to investigate what kind of help they provided or how they helped; this is the most I can find out.

Richard put the report down.

………………

Huji Funeral Home is located at the corner of Yunhe Road in the North District.

The storefront is small, sandwiched between a general store and a shoe repair shop.

A bunch of holly branches hung under the sign; they were dry and hadn't been picked yet.

Mrs. McNeil stood in the doorway.

Richard was half a step behind her.

The room wasn't big; it contained two old tables and a few folding chairs.

Mr. Reeve came out from behind the curtain.

Medium height, slightly hunched back.

He wore a gray cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his face had a kind expression.

His hands had calluses, not thick, the kind that come from years of carrying coffin boards.

"Are you two here to make funeral arrangements?" he asked, his voice calm and unhurried.

Mrs. McNeil nodded tentatively.

"Let's ask about the situation."

"Mr. Burns from Slag Alley, were you the ones who helped him with the cooking?"

"Mr. Burns, I remember, I remember."

Mr. Reeve took a register out of the drawer and flipped through a few pages.

"The old man passed away peacefully. The neighbors said he was sitting by the stove when he left."

There weren't many people at home. We helped with the coffin, funeral clothes, hiring a pastor, and digging the grave; we didn't charge them anything for the whole process.

He put the register back and took out an enamel mug from the cabinet.

"Sit down, I'll make some tea."

Richard sat down in the folding chair.

The tea is the cheapest kind of broken black tea, which turns out beautifully when brewed with boiling water.

Mr. Reeve poured a glass for him and Mrs. McNeil, and then sat down opposite them, holding a glass for himself.

"Are you related to Mr. Burns?"

“My neighbor,” Richard said. “I live on the east side of Slag Lane.”

"Oh?" Mr. Reeve's eyebrows twitched.

Richard didn't drink tea; the "Quiet Observation" function remained on.

Inspiration lies dormant beneath my feet, without a ripple.

Mr. Reeve smelled very clean, so clean it was chilling.

An ordinary person will carry some remnants of environmental ether.

When you walk through an area with a high concentration of ether, some will stick to the soles of your shoes.

When you touch an old object that has been around for a long time, your fingertips will brush against a strand of it.

Mr. Reeve had none at all.

Like a mirror, it reflects your gaze without revealing anything of itself.

Mrs. McNeil didn't drink tea either.

"Mr. Reeve, how many years have you been in the funeral business?" she asked.

"It's been twelve years." Mr. Reeve rubbed the calluses on his palms.

"He used to be a workshop director in a factory, but he fell seriously ill and almost didn't make it through."

After I recovered, I felt listless and couldn't muster the energy to do anything, so I thought about doing something to help others.

"For poor families, the biggest worry when it comes to funeral arrangements is money."

The cheapest coffin costs at least two shillings, hiring a pastor is another expense, and digging the grave is yet another.

Some people save their whole lives, only to find they can't even afford a coffin lid in the end.

"I just thought, I'll help whoever I can."

He spoke these words in a calm tone, without any passion or emotion.

Richard looked at his face.

The kindness on that face was cold.

Kindness itself is not cold; it carries body heat, the smell of sweat, and the exhaustion of being overwhelmed and powerless.

A truly good person's kindness should be raw and down-to-earth.

Mr. Riff's kindness is a perfectly tailored coat.

Every stitch was neat and every edge was clean.

It fits me perfectly when I wear it.

It fits so well that it doesn't feel like you're wearing it, but rather like it's part of your body.

Richard put the teacup back on the table.

"Mr. Reeve, I heard that quite a few elderly people have passed away in the North District this year?"

"That's right," Mr. Reeve sighed.

"This winter has been particularly tough; the mines have reduced their workforce, and the factories have also reduced their workforce."

Elderly people who rely on pensions are already struggling financially; one illness and they're gone.

"Our funeral home has handled almost half as many cases this year as in previous years."

He pulled a receipt from under the cabinet.

"Look, this whole area is along the slag heap, the canal road, and the Black Ditch."

He spread the receipts out on the table and pointed them out to Richard one by one.

"This is Mrs. Perkins, the widow of a coal miner, who passed away last winter."

This is old McGree, retired from the docks, he has a heart condition. And this one…”

His finger stopped on a receipt.

"This lady is named Lizzie."

Richard's breathing slowed slightly.

"They were fished out of the Black Ditch," Mr. Reeve said, his tone unchanged.

"No one claimed it, and it had no identification on it. It had a smiley face drawn on its left wrist. We helped with the burial."

"What did you draw?"

"A smiley face," Mr. Reeve gestured. "Drawn with charcoal, like a child's drawing."