"Sid, I've run into a troublesome case. I think you'll find it very interesting."
Outside the door, the bearded policeman crushed his cigarette under his boot and exhaled heavily, exhaustion written all over his face.
Dawn discreetly studied the man before him. Recalling the name recorded in the diary, he guessed this must be Chief Groot.
Watching the bearded officer gesture for him to follow, Dawn shrugged and stepped back.
"Sorry. I'm not interested."
"...What did you just say?"
Groot's expression froze.
He stared at the detective—who had once shamelessly chased after every case available—as if he had just heard something absurd.
"You said you're not interested?"
Dawn nodded casually.
He narrowed his eyes, observing Groot's reaction with quiet astonishment.
Everything was too real.
When he acted according to his own will, the people he encountered responded logically instead of following some predetermined script.
Was it possible that he hadn't merely connected to a deceased mind—but that everyone in this dream possessed independent, logical thought?
Dawn raised a brow.
He found it hard to believe. His gaze drifted past the officer's shoulder toward the gray, overcast sky.
Did this dream have boundaries?
If every person here had independent thought, and he could move freely anywhere, then this was no different from a new world.
No wonder the author of The Study of the Resurrection Stone had described it as a second life.
Dawn inhaled slowly.
He might truly have underestimated the Deathly Hallows.
After a moment of reflection, he lowered his gaze.
Even if the realism was astonishing, he had experienced something similar before. Acceptance came easily.
Though he did wonder—could the dream from his childhood, the one that had felt like a previous life, also be connected to the Resurrection Stone?
He pondered briefly, then looked at the confused officer and smiled.
"Sorry. Just joking. Let's go."
If this dream had taken place after 1980, Dawn would have immediately traveled to Kensington in West London to investigate history prior to the world correction.
But it was 1940.
The Richters had not even been born yet. There was nothing to investigate.
So instead of waiting idly for the dream to end—or wandering through a world at war—he might as well try being a detective.
After all, as a Briton, he had always been fascinated by the profession.
Groot, still puzzled by the sudden reversal, dismissed it as a peculiar joke and led him to a black-and-white police car parked below.
The city streets were desolate. Most shops were closed. The few pedestrians who passed hurried along, bundled tightly in coats.
Not surprising.
It was 1940. Britain stood under the shadow of war.
For now, things were relatively calm.
But by September, when the German Luftwaffe began strategic bombing raids on London and other major cities, the intensity would escalate dramatically.
Dawn leaned his elbow against the window and watched the bleak landscape roll by.
War was cruel—but he knew this was a dream. He observed with pure curiosity.
Eventually, the car left the city center and stopped before a private estate on the outskirts.
Dawn stepped out.
As they walked inward, Groot explained the layout and the case.
The estate was moderately large, divided into two residential sections—one east, one west—with gardens and lawns separating them.
Seven people lived here: the master of the estate, his two sons, his daughter, a housekeeper, and two maids.
Only the master lived in the western residence. The other six stayed in the east.
As for the case—
Two nights ago, the three children had been chatting in the eastern residence about the war when thunder struck.
Knowing their father had heart problems and lived alone in the west, they grew concerned and crossed the garden to check on him.
They found the house locked. Despite repeated knocking and shouting, there was no response.
The daughter instructed her brothers to fetch the spare key from the housekeeper while she continued calling out.
When the sons returned with the housekeeper and unlocked the door, they discovered their father dead on the sofa.
Dawn frowned slightly.
"Why did the victim live alone? Wasn't he elderly? Didn't he need care?"
"Post-traumatic stress," Groot explained. "He served in the war, was injured, and retired early. Since then, he preferred solitude."
He handed Dawn a photograph.
The victim sat twisted on the sofa, head tilted toward a closed window. A dark bullet hole marred the back of his skull.
They arrived at the western house.
It stood separate from the others, surrounded by damp soil and grass.
Groot continued, lighting another cigarette.
"No murder weapon was found at the scene, so we've concluded it was homicide. But two problems remain."
He exhaled smoke.
"First—the room itself. The door was locked. The windows sealed. Only two keys existed: one on the housekeeper, one on the deceased."
"No signs of forced entry. Which means—it was a perfect locked room."
Dawn interjected, "So the housekeeper is the killer?"
"Not necessarily."
"The spare key wasn't carried around. It was stored in a designated location. Dust indicated it hadn't been touched before the sons retrieved it."
Dawn nodded thoughtfully.
Groot handed him more photographs—muddy footprints around the house.
"Second—the lawn. It rained shortly after dinner that night. The soil was wet."
"We found only the victim's footprints entering the house, and the children's when they came over. No others."
"In other words—we have no idea how the killer crossed the lawn without leaving footprints. Even if he hid there before the rain, how did he leave without traces?"
Dawn raised a brow.
"A double locked-room mystery."
Groot nodded.
"Any suspects?"
"Yes."
Groot passed him more photos.
"If we ignore the method, we suspect one of the three children or the housekeeper."
"The housekeeper was alone after dinner. The children were together but each left briefly at different times."
"As for the two maids—they were off that day and have solid alibis."
Dawn asked, "Why rule out an outsider?"
"We found the murder weapon—a pistol with blood—hidden in the nearby garden. If it were an outsider, why leave it behind?"
Fair enough.
Dawn didn't ask about fingerprints. In 1940 Britain, forensic methods were limited.
He twirled the cane in his hand.
"Where are the suspects now?"
He was ready to solve the case.
As a wizard proficient in Legilimency, he could easily outshine any Muggle detective.
But Groot dampened his enthusiasm.
"They're handling funeral matters. Should be back around noon."
Dawn checked his watch.
Over an hour to go.
Instead of waiting, he decided to inspect the crime scene.
Inside the room, police tape had already been removed. Dawn crouched, studying the chalk outline, the lock, the dried blood.
He found nothing.
Apparently, he lacked natural deductive brilliance.
He clicked his tongue.
"Chief, could I have a moment alone?"
Groot hesitated, then agreed and left.
Dawn confirmed he was alone and murmured:
°Rapid Manifestation°
A milky bubble rose from the floor—but it showed a much older scene.
He tried again.
Dozens of attempts later, just as frustration mounted—
Success.
The victim slumped on the sofa, shot in the back of the head. Blood spilled across the carpet.
There were faint movement sounds—likely the killer. But the angle showed only the victim.
Disappointing.
Yet just before the bubble burst—
A sharp clink.
A button bounced into view from the edge of the scene.
Dawn froze.
A button?
Groot hadn't mentioned one. So the killer must have retrieved it.
He focused intently—and then clarity struck. Most garments with overlapping fronts follow a pattern.
Men's coats fasten left over right. Women's garments fasten right over left.
The button had bounced rightward due to fabric tension.
Meaning it had come from the upper left side. Which indicated a right-over-left fastening.
A woman's coat.
Among the suspects, only the daughter fit that description. Unless one of the men secretly wore women's clothing—a detail easily verified.
Dawn's thoughts aligned with satisfying precision.
The door creaked open.
"Sid? Still thinking?"
Dawn sighed as the bubble shattered.
"You should knock first, Chief."
He turned confidently. "I've solved the locked-room mystery."
Groot's eyes widened.
"Already?"
"The key was not in the victim's pocket from the beginning."
"What?"
Dawn rested a hand on the sofa. "In my view, this is what happened."
___________
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