The Shepherds Are Dense-Chapter 50: Edward Moriarty

The fire in the hearth crackled softly.
Wrapped in a thick woolen cloak, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.
His amber-brown pupils gradually came into focus, sharpening with clarity.
With a deep, deliberate breath, the rocking chair creaked as he sat up with effort.
He shuffled to the table and used the chemical apparatus there to boil a cup of water with trembling hands.
He only brought it up to around thirty or forty degrees—just enough to dispel the winter morning’s chill—before adding three heaping spoonfuls of honey.
After downing it in one gulp, he closed his eyes in silence, standing with his back straight.
It was as if he were savoring the taste of the honey water—or perhaps quickly recovering his strength.
After a long while, he finally opened his eyes again.
The composed and unflinching Sherlock Hermes had returned in full.
“Why am I in third place?”
He murmured under his breath,
“Besides ‘Bone Carver,’ who else could have more points than me? Fox? Or Coco?”
He mulled it over for a moment and tucked the question away for later.
He immediately began analyzing another matter:
“That scene just now… that pale, skeletal hand—whose was it? And who was that fat man?”
“Scenes shown during settlement are always significant—important events directly related to the mission.
And they’re shown in chronological order.
Fox’s suicide sealed our victory, and that happened afterward...
“Then that fat man must’ve been the culprit.
But whose was that white hand?”
There were only two possible suspects.
It had to be either Bone Carver or Coco.
Both were absent from the flashbacks—their faces never shown.
But considering Fox had two scenes, it suggested his point total might surpass Sherlock’s.
And if Coco’s was counted too, there wouldn’t be room for both.
Which meant the person who scored big with the ‘Kill the Culprit’ objective…
Was likely Bone Carver.
‘A truly dangerous man.’
To kill a second-tier demon scholar while only first-tier…
His other path must be quite advanced.
“Lars Graham…”
Sherlock murmured as he retrieved a dossier from the cabinet behind him.
His room was dim, cramped, and poorly ventilated.
The air carried the scent of chemical reagents mixed with dust.
Books, ritual supplies, and case files were scattered across shelves and desks.
Though it appeared messy, Sherlock always knew exactly where everything was.
He pulled out the file and moved to the window, squinting as he carefully read through it.
“Born February 29, 1824... Seventy-four years old.”
A citizen of Iris.
Born in the town of Higwell.
Father was a baker, mother a seamstress.
“At fourteen, he studied sculpture under Master Albert Adelaide.
At eighteen, he embarked on the Path of Beauty.
At twenty-three, his master passed away, and he was recommended to study at Cité University.
By twenty-eight, he was hired as a lecturer at Cité.
“At thirty-four, he held his first sculpture exhibition.
By thirty-eight, he was hailed a master.
At forty-six, he became the deputy dean of Cité’s School of Arts…”
Sherlock muttered as he quickly skimmed the intel.
Then, his gaze fixed on the middle of page three:
“...In 1893, he was invited to Avalon to sculpt a holy statue for Queen Sophia.
The work was completed in February 1896.
“...In 1895, he became a guest professor at the Royal College of Law's Seminary, teaching ‘Aesthetics 101.’
Resigned in June 1898.”
He had left Iris for Avalon five years ago to sculpt a holy statue for the aging queen.
That was his final commission.
Three years ago… before completing the statue, he had taken up a teaching post at the seminary—but only for three years.
Although the vision only flashed for a brief moment…
Sherlock had seen clearly that the pale ghostly girl was wearing the seminary uniform.
“...Interesting.”
Though some missing persons still needed investigation, the truth was nearly in hand.
This man would be tricky to deal with.
As an international public figure and a foreigner…
Hard evidence would be required to convict him.
And even then, the worst punishment might be deportation.
But if it could be proven that he had taken the path of Twilight, things might become easier.
“Bone Carver is off-limits for now.
Fox…”
Sherlock murmured,
“Just who are you?”
No need to rush the to Her Majesty.
First, he had to verify the intelligence Fox had given him—and only then would he determine Fox’s true stance.
So, after pondering for a while, Sherlock sat at his desk and began scribbling.
He was calculating the location of that abandoned chemical factory on a map of Lawton District.
Suddenly, he picked up the telephone and spun the heavy rotary dial with one hand.
The line was answered after just two rings.
“Morning, Edward.”
Clutching the receiver between his neck and shoulder, Sherlock spoke rapidly while marking the map,
“My dear partner, I hope you’ve already woken up—naturally, I mean, not by me calling.
Yes, I’ve got something for you—a real headache.
So I need your help. Urgently.
Come see me right away, I’ll treat you to breakfast. You pick the place.
“—Yes, it’s in Lawton District.
You remember the ‘Sweater Brotherhood’?”
Meanwhile—
In the Red Queen District, inside the Office of the Chief Inspector—
Edward Moriarty answered the phone with his gloved left hand.
His short black hair was neatly slicked back.
His face, though edged with sharp lines, bore a solemn and composed expression.
Compared to his siblings, Edward’s appearance was far more ordinary.
His cheekbones were slightly high, his features square—projecting a sense of righteous authority.
Seated in his office chair, he wore the signature black uniform of an inspector—like funeral attire.
His frame was strong, easily filling out the suit.
The thick coat reached only to his waist, and he wore slim black pants with polished leather shoes.
In his breast pocket was a white handkerchief.
Only his left hand wore a white glove—his right hand was bare.
His knuckles and bones were sharply defined, radiating power.
Despite the clear irritation on his face, he didn’t hang up the phone.
This was his best friend.
His classmate.
His most reliable old partner.
With his ungloved right hand, Edward slid his fingers over a piece of paper.
It was a list of names—each marked
Pending Inspection
.
“Sweater Brotherhood…”
Edward murmured, narrowing his eyes in thought,
“I’ve heard the name, but don’t remember much.”
His voice was deep and magnetic, exuding steady reliability.
“They’re probably a group of garroters.
The name comes from their early days of poverty, when the current boss’s mother knit them all matching sweaters.
When they formed a gang, they kept the name to honor that.”
“So what, they messed with you?
Or are you trying to buy them off?”
“—Reliable intel suggests they’re tied to the ones behind the Pelican Bar.
And I’ve got the location of their hideout.”
Came Sherlock’s slightly distorted voice over the phone,
“That’s why I want you to come with me to investigate.
I’ve got some concerns—if the intel is accurate, there’s definitely a risk of me getting killed.”
Edward furrowed his brow slightly.
A dazzling silver-white glow began to gather deep within his black eyes.
“For real?”
Edward said in a low voice,
“You know who’s backing them.”
“Sixty percent sure.
I haven’t verified it yet.”
Sherlock replied.
“Sixty from you is high, Hermes. I believe you.”
“Then come to my place, Chief Inspector.
Bring your gun and your white gloves.”
“Alright. See you soon.”
Edward replied crisply, then hung up.
He holstered a sleek white pistol at his waist, followed by two elven-style silver daggers.
Then he pulled out the white whistle hanging from his neck and blew it hard.
The whistle made no audible sound—
But moments later, the flap of wings echoed outside the window.
He opened the window and let in his black griffin mount, feeding it before departure.
Just then, there came a knock on the office door.
“—Give the to Deputy Assad.”
Edward spoke coolly,
“Logistics approval goes through Lady Scarlet. I’m heading out.”
“It’s me, Edward.”
Came the soft, gentle voice of his adoptive father—James Moriarty.
Edward’s brows arched slightly.
That icy, severe expression on his face softened a bit.
He immediately went over and opened the door.
He was much taller than his adoptive father, so he stooped slightly and spoke with a gentler tone,
“Father, is something wrong? You came early today.”
“You’re going out?”
The courteous old gentleman glanced at the griffin eating inside, then tipped his hat with a wry smile,
“What a coincidence—I also have a sudden trip.”
“Far?”
“To the Theocracy.
I was going to send Oswald, but figured I’d better go myself.
I’ll be back in about two weeks.
Look after your siblings while I’m gone.”
Old James said warmly,
“Oh, right—Aiwass is returning to school. Make the arrangements.”
“No problem, Father.”
The stoic young man nodded,
“I’ll stay at home during this time and protect Aiwass and Yulia.”
“Good.
Glass Island is about to get messy…
One more thing,”
Old James added leisurely,
“Wrap up the Pelican Bar case.
Clean up the trail.
It ends here.
Anyone still poking around—make them stop.”
“...Yes.”
“Oh, by the way—
Did you find the letter I asked about?”
“No, it’s truly missing.”
Edward answered,
“The second body was stripped of a lot of expected items.
Even her ‘Crimson Nobility’ was missing.”
“Then Aiwass probably took it.
After all, Veronica’s ‘Crimson Nobility’ is in your brother’s hands too.
In that case, forget the letter.”
Old James said warmly,
“If Aiwass suffers danger because of his justice and curiosity, then let him solve it himself.
Just last night, I sensed a dreamworld fluctuation.
He’s begun his first advancement ritual…
That child finally has secrets of his own. I’m pleased.”
His murky gray eyes squinted in satisfaction.
“As for the spy… it’s better you don’t know.
Secrets are power.
But in your hands, it’s not a blade yet—just chains on your thoughts.”
“Father…”
“It won’t be long now. Edward, soon…
I’ll hand it all over to you.
But not yet.”
“...Then what should I do now?
Besides wrapping up the Pelican Bar?”
“Do what you were about to do anyway.
Weren’t you just heading out?”
The ever-calm old man patted his towering son on the shoulder with a gentle smile,
“But remember to eat something first.
Skipping breakfast is bad for your stomach.”
(End of Chapter)