Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The next morning, when Richard entered the workshop, the steam engine had not yet been ignited, and only a few early workers were cleaning iron filings off the machine tools.

He walked past rows of machines and stopped at a workstation in the corner.

Sean returned and stood there, one hand on the workbench, the other inspecting a newly installed gun bolt.

His face was still bandaged, the wound was slowly healing, and the bruises hadn't completely faded, but his fingers were still nimble, and his movements were still so fluid.

"Young Master." Sean raised his head, and perhaps because it aggravated the injury on his face, he frowned slightly.

Richard walked over and looked at Sean's hands. The scabs on his knuckles had fallen off, revealing pink new skin underneath, but his hands were as steady as pliers when he held something.

"Is your hand alright?" Richard asked.

"No problem," Sean clenched his fist. "The doctor said I can remove the splint after another week of rest, but I don't think I need to. I can already exert force."

"The doctor said one week, so just wait one week," Richard sighed. "Don't let it leave any lasting health problems, or your sister will be devastated."

Sean lowered his head, his fingers gripping the gap in the bolt.

"Young master, thank you," his voice was a little hoarse. "Catherine remembers to send you milk and eggs every day. And that tincture of opium—if it weren't for you, I might have really become addicted. If it weren't for you, I don't know if I would still be standing here."

Richard patted him on the shoulder: "You're standing here because you got through it all on your own. I just helped a little."

Sean didn't say anything more; he knew that saying anything more would be pretentious, so he continued working as usual.

Richard turned and walked toward his office. He opened the door, sat down in a chair, and took a thick stack of documents from his drawer.

Finbar gave him the ledgers, the payroll records and timesheets from the Greenwood factory.

He had already prepared the copies and sent them to various newspapers, along with an anonymous letter entitled "The Plight of Irish Workers at Greenwood Factory – Insider Testimony".

The newspapers will print it out tomorrow or the day after. Then Greenwood will face the wrath of the entire city of London.

As for the private account Sera gave him, Greenwood's records of bribing government officials, he spent an entire night looking through it, checking most of the names.

This account is quite old; those people have either been transferred outside of London or promoted to positions he rarely sees.

After much deliberation, only one name came to mind: still in London, still in the same position, doing the same thing as a few years ago.

Benjamin Brendel, a customs officer at the Port of London.

Although his official rank wasn't high, it was the highest position he could reach in the customs system of 1868, unless he had an extremely powerful background or could get in touch with a certain minister.

But he had no connections and hadn't saved any money, so he remained there, reviewing import declarations day after day, stamping them between "approved" and "rejected".

The steel and copper that Greenwood imported from abroad would pass through his hands very quickly, one batch at a time.

Richard folded the paper and put it in his pocket, picked up his coat, and prepared to go see him, hoping to use Eleanor's little trick to force him to testify.

"Young Master, where are you going?" Sean asked from the doorway.

"I'm going out for a bit," Richard said, his shirt still buttoned up, as he reached the top of the stairs. "If you're too tired, take a break. It's okay."

Sean nodded.

Richard boarded a carriage and headed to a residential area in the East District.

The houses here are very orderly, just rows of neat brick houses, each with a small garden in front of it, with holly or roses, and occasionally a small, thin apple tree.

Richard followed the house number on the note and stopped in front of the second-to-last house.

The grass in the garden was all withered, the rose branches thorned towards the sky, and a thin layer of dust had accumulated on the steps in front of the door. There were no footprints or shoe prints, proving that no one had been in or out for a long time.

Richard walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

He knocked three more times, this time with more force.

Still no one.

Richard's heart sank. He took two steps back and looked up at the second-floor window.

The curtains were drawn tightly shut, obscuring the view inside. He walked around to the side of the house and peeked through the kitchen window.

A pot was covered by the stove, there were no bowls in the sink, and the table was spotless, without even a dishcloth.

It was too tidy, so tidy that it didn't look like a man's home. Richard already knew that he and his wife were divorced, and no one helped him tidy up the house.

Richard returned to the front door, took a deep breath, and then kicked the door open.

boom!

The door slammed against the wall with a dull thud.

The house was cold, and no one lit a fire, but there was cooled soot in the fireplace.

He went up to the second floor and headed towards the innermost study.

The door was closed but unlocked, and a sweet, rotten smell wafted from under the door, immediately putting Richard on alert.

He'd smelled this before at Guy's Hospital; back then it was mixed with disinfectant, and he hadn't felt like throwing up, but now…

Richard pushed open the door.

Benjamin Brendel was hanging from the curtain rod, and the chair in front of the desk had been kicked over.

The copper curtain rod was bent slightly by his weight, and the rope wrapped around the rod, circled twice around his neck, and tied in a knot.

His body was no longer swaying; it was just suspended there motionless, and his face… Richard only glanced at it before looking away.

What he saw in that instant was enough to haunt him on every sleepless night that followed.

His dark purple face resembled a piece of spoiled pig liver, his lips parted to reveal his blackened gums.

Flies were everywhere.

They crawled on his face and fluttered in front of Richard, showing no fear of people, not even the gust of wind that Richard stirred up when he opened the door.

Richard's stomach churned violently, and he turned over, bent over, and vomited all the bread and coffee he had eaten that morning onto the hallway floor.

"Damn!" He choked on his tears, but he didn't stop until he couldn't vomit anything more, only dry heaving.

If he had known this would happen, he wouldn't have eaten so much this morning.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaned against the wall, turned his head, and forced himself to take another look at the study.

The curtains were drawn, and the room was dark, with only light filtering through the crack in the door illuminating the neat rows of documents on the desk.

There was no suicide note on the table, only stacks of neatly arranged customs declarations and a closed ink bottle.

Everything was neat and orderly, as if the owner had only gone to run a water purifier and would then return to continue working.

Richard left the study and went down the stairs, his hands trembling. The only witness he could find on Greenwood's bribery list was dead, and no one had noticed for days.

But he couldn't call the police.

A customs official who accepted a bribe hanged himself, and Scotland Yard would only take a few notes, write a report, and then completely disappear without a trace.

He needs someone to help him.

Richard walked out of the house and stood on the steps.

He knew someone was following him, and there was probably more than one, but he only needed one right now.

"Come out!" Richard said.

No one answered; only the wind rustled through the withered rose branches.

"I know you're here," Richard raised his voice, "come out, I need your help!"

The world was silent for a few seconds.

Then, he heard the fallen leaves being crushed behind him.

"Do you know that burglary is a serious crime?"

A man emerged from the hedge behind him, wearing a dark gray overcoat, his hands in his pockets. He wasn't wearing a hat, and his hair shimmered grayish-white in the afternoon light; his nose was high and prominent.

Mr. Nose.

Richard didn't know the man's name or position, but to be honest, he preferred Hans to be the one to come out.