Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The carriage left the main road and turned into a narrow road lined with sycamore trees on both sides.

Camberwell is not far from central London, but the air is almost devoid of the Thames' moisture; instead, it is filled with the sweet scent of damp earth and grass roots.

Dark clouds obscured the sun, and like most days this week, it was going to rain again.

Inspector Logan was the first to jump off the carriage, turned around and helped Louise up, with Richard following behind him.

There was a detached cottage by the roadside, with red brick walls and white window frames. In the garden in front of the house, a woman was collecting laundry.

She was in her thirties, wearing a floral long dress. A gust of wind blew by, and she raised her hand to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Then, she stood on tiptoe, pulled a women's shirt off the clothesline, folded it, and put it in the wicker basket at her feet.

Nearby, a seven or eight-year-old girl was squatting on the ground, holding several crayons in her hand, drawing on the lawn.

She painted very intently, never lifting her head. Only when the wind blew would she squint and flick the hair that was blown onto her face behind her.

The woman glanced at the increasingly thick dark clouds on the horizon and quickened her pace of bringing in the laundry.

Inspector Logan stepped forward and stopped in front of the low fence in the garden. "Good afternoon, madam. I am Logan, Inspector Logan of Scotland Yard."

He took a business card out of his pocket and handed it over the fence; the white card had his name, rank, and number printed on it.

Anna Brendel, Richard learned her name from Logan.

She wiped her hands on her apron, took the business card and glanced at it, but when she looked up, her eyes revealed fear and tension.

"Detective? And who are these two...?"

“My colleague,” Logan gestured to Richard, “this is Mr. Brian, who accompanied me here. As for this lady…” He glanced at Louise, “she’s a philanthropist. She’s been supporting the people of the East End.”

"A philanthropist?" she repeated, her voice tinged with confusion. "What happened?"

Logan glanced at the girl squatting by the roadside drawing and deliberately lowered his voice: "Madam, I'm sorry to inform you... your husband, Mr. Benjamin Brendel, was found dead at home yesterday afternoon. The preliminary assessment is suicide."

Anna clutched her chest abruptly, her lips trembling. Her other hand seemed to be searching for something to lean on, but there was nothing around.

"This is terrible..." she said.

She took a deep breath, smoothed out the wrinkles on her apron, and turned to push open the garden gate: "Please come in, it's going to rain outside."

She took two steps, then stopped and looked back at the girl who was squatting on the ground drawing.

A troubled look appeared on her face. Should she let the child in, or leave her outside? If she came in, the child would hear the adults' conversation; if she left her outside, how could she feel at ease leaving her outside?

"I can watch over her," Louise's gentle voice came from behind.

She stepped forward, bent down, and looked at the crayon drawing on the ground: "Have you studied art, child? It's very well drawn."

The girl looked up, but there was no smile on her face: "This is me and my mom. Dad hasn't come in a long time... I don't know where to draw him."

Louise reached out and gently touched the girl's hair. The girl lowered her head and continued drawing.

Anna's eyes welled up with tears as she watched this scene. She pushed open the door and let Logan and Richard in.

The house has very limited space. The living room doubles as the dining room. The bookshelves against the wall are crammed with books, mostly in French, and some are French textbooks.

Anna poured tea for Logan and Richard, placed the teacups in front of them, and sat on the chair opposite them, looking as nervous as a prisoner in the station.

Logan picked up his teacup, blew on it, and took a sip.

"Mrs. Brendle," he began, "I would like to ask, before you and Mr. Brendle divorced, did he show signs of significant work stress? Or... did he mention being threatened?"

Anna lowered her head, her hands, clasped on her knees, nervously rubbing her thighs.

“He doesn’t talk to me much about work,” she replied. “He often says that he’s at the peak of his career, and that I… and his daughter are just an obstacle to his advancement.”

She bit her lip.

"I think he's been driven crazy by his official position. All he thinks about every day is how to get promoted and how to climb the ranks in customs." Anna shook her head. "When he comes home, all he talks about is goods and money. When Ella talks to him, he just gives her a few perfunctory replies and then disappears into his study."

Ella must be that girl's name, Richard thought.

Her voice trembled slightly as she continued:

"When Ella asked him when he would take her to the park, he would always say he would wait until he was promoted to minister. When he actually became minister, he would probably say he would wait until his father became a bureau chief." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Later I thought, forget it, without him, we'll just live on our own."

Logan was silent for a few seconds, then glanced at Richard, who nodded.

"Mrs. Brendle," Richard said softly, "if you don't mind, I'd like to ask what the reason was for your divorce from Mr. Brendle?"

In this generation, divorce is not a respectable thing for women, so if Anna is willing to divorce, there must be a very important reason.

Upon hearing this question, Anna gave a wry smile.

"What else could it be?" she sighed. "The only reason men ever get divorced is always the same: another younger, prettier woman."

Richard didn't respond, waiting for her to continue.

"About a year ago, he met a secretary at customs. He said her family had connections in high places and could help him get promoted and make money. He started staying out all night, and even when he did come home, he just ignored us," Anna's voice trailed off. "He was always busy, so busy that we got divorced."

She looked out the window; it was already dark. Louise was still squatting in the garden, painting with the girl, their heads close together.

"Have you met that secretary?" Richard asked.

Anna shook her head: "No, I don't even know her name. All I know is that he spent far more money on her than on his daughter."

Richard's heart sank. He had just met a powerful figure at work who could help him get promoted and make a fortune. These words sounded like a trap or a lure.

Logan picked up his teacup and took another sip, then changed the subject: "Mrs. Brendel, where were you last week?"

Anna calmed down a bit: "I teach French at a school. I go to get off work and leave on time every day. After class, I go home to do housework and spend time with my daughter." She paused. "The school knows my situation... but they can't find a better French teacher than me, so I still have a job."

Logan nodded, took a small notebook out of his pocket, wrote a few lines, closed it, and put it back in his pocket.

Richard stood up and straightened his coat collar. "Mrs. Brendle, thank you for your time and tea. We won't bother you any longer."

Logan also stood up and gave Anna a slight bow: "If there's anything else you need to add, feel free to contact me. My contact information and address are on my business card."

Anna stood up and saw them to the door. Richard had just stepped out the door when he suddenly stopped.

"Mrs. Brendle, there's one more question," he said. "Does Benjamin...have a gambling addiction?"

Anna was taken aback; she hadn't expected to be asked that.

She tilted her head and thought for a moment, then said, "No, I've never seen him go to the horse farm. He spends all his money on cultivating relationships, entertaining guests, and giving gifts. If he has any hobbies, it must be work."

Richard nodded and walked down the steps, but the horse racing newspaper that had been buried under The Times suddenly became exceptionally clear in his mind.

Why would someone who doesn't bet on horses have horse racing newsletters on their desk?