“Hold on a minute, pal.” Fred’s voice cracked, raw with confusion. He squinted at the imposing guard, a man whose armor gleamed under a sun that felt too bright, too ancient. “You know my name? And a case? What kind of case? Where am I?” “Detective Cleavence.” The guard’s tone was firm, unyielding. No trace of the New York banter Fred was used to. “The Duchess de Valois. Murdered. Her manor awaits.” He gestured with a gauntleted hand toward a waiting carriage, not a sleek black cruiser, but a wooden contraption drawn by two large, brown horses. Dust plumed from their hooves. Murdered. The word cut through Fred’s disorientation like a sharp knife. His detective instincts, honed over years in the NYPD, immediately flared. A case. That, he understood, even if everything else felt like a bad acid trip. He blinked, trying to process the medieval clothing of the passersby, the cobblestone streets, the complete absence of skyscrapers. This wasn’t a dream. This was… insane. Climbing into the carriage, he felt the rough fabric of the seat beneath him. The guard joined him, the clang of his armor echoing in the enclosed space. Fred tried to make sense of the past few minutes. One moment, a coffee-stained desk in his precinct, the next, a vortex of green light, and now, this. A murder. In a world that looked ripped from a fantasy novel. “Who is this Duchess de Valois?” Fred asked, his voice calmer now, adopting his professional cadence. “Details. Time of death? Weapon? Any witnesses?” “Lady Annelise de Valois,” the guard replied, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Discovered this morning. Stabbed. No witnesses reported yet. Her servant found her. The body remains untouched, awaiting your expertise.” Untouched. Fred suppressed a groan. That usually meant a dozen eager but untrained hands had already contaminated the scene. His mind raced, calculating what tools he might need, what he *didn’t* have. No crime scene tape. No forensic kits. No gloves. This was going to be a nightmare of epic proportions. They rumbled through narrow, winding streets, past thatched-roof houses and bustling market stalls where people in tunics and long skirts bartered for goods. The air smelled of woodsmoke, horses, and something that reminded Fred vaguely of freshly baked bread. It was a sensory overload, a stark contrast to the familiar exhaust fumes and stale coffee of his own time. He watched the faces of the people they passed. Some looked curious, others hurried. None seemed to notice the absurdity of a man in a rumpled suit sitting next to an armored knight. Did he blend in? Or were they just used to strange sights? He couldn't tell. Minutes stretched, feeling like hours. The carriage jostled him, making his stomach churn. His head still throbbed from whatever had propelled him here. He needed coffee. A proper bagel. Instead, he had a murder in a historical reenactment gone terribly wrong. Eventually, the carriage slowed, then stopped. He peered out the window. An immense manor loomed before them, its stone walls soaring, topped with crenellated turrets. It was grand, ancient, draped in climbing ivy. A heavy wooden gate, flanked by stone lions, stood open, revealing a meticulously kept courtyard. Fred stepped out, blinking at the sheer scale of the place. It dwarfed anything he’d ever seen in New York. The air here was cleaner, crisper, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant flowers. A young woman, dressed in a simple but clean grey gown, curtsied deeply as they approached the manor’s imposing front doors. “Master Detective Cleavence,” the guard announced, his voice booming slightly in the quiet courtyard. “This is Marie, Lady Annelise’s personal maid. She discovered the body.” Marie’s eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, darted from the guard to Fred, then back again. Fear, and something else—grief—etched themselves onto her pale face. “Sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s… it’s horrible.” “Marie, can you lead us to the duchess’s chambers?” Fred asked, his voice gentle but firm. He needed information. He needed to see the scene. She nodded, her hand clutching the folds of her skirt. Marie led them through vast, echoing halls, past portraits of stern-faced ancestors, and through a maze of corridors. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes and mythical creatures adorned the walls, adding to the surreal atmosphere. Every step felt like walking deeper into a storybook, a beautiful, deadly one. Finally, they reached a heavy oak door. Marie hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. She pushed it open with a trembling hand, then stepped aside, averting her gaze. Fred’s eyes scanned the room. It was a lavish bedroom, rich with velvet drapes, a four-poster bed, and ornate wooden furniture. But his gaze locked on the figure on the floor. Lady Annelise de Valois lay sprawled beside her bed, a crimson stain spreading across the intricate patterns of the rug. Her silken nightgown was torn, revealing the wounds. Multiple stab wounds. His stomach clenched. This wasn’t just an unfortunate accident. This was brutal, personal. He knelt, his modern mind cataloging every detail. The glazed eyes, still open, staring at the ceiling. The position of the body, indicating a struggle. The way her hands were splayed, one clutching a small, ornate locket. He leaned closer. No, not clutched. It had fallen from her grip. Her fingers were stiffening. “When did you find her, Marie?” he asked, not looking up, his voice low. He needed a timeline. “This morning, sir,” Marie sobbed, still standing by the door. “I came to wake her, as I do every day. The door was ajar. I… I saw her. And I screamed.” “What time, exactly?” Fred pressed, examining the wounds. They were deep, jagged. Not a clean kill. A frenzied attack. He noticed a slight discoloration around some of the wounds, suggesting a specific type of blade, or perhaps, a twisted motion. The blood had begun to congeal, but not fully dried. He estimated death had occurred sometime in the early hours of the morning, perhaps just before dawn. “Just after the first bell, sir. Sun was barely up.” Marie wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Fred stood, surveying the room. No obvious signs of forced entry. The window was latched from the inside. The door, Marie said, was ajar. Did that mean the killer had been let in? Or had they hidden inside? He needed to check for hidden passages, something he knew these old manors often possessed. But first, the immediate vicinity. He circled the body slowly, his eyes sharp. No obvious weapon. No bloody footprints other than the ones Marie must have made when she entered. He looked at the floor, searching for anything amiss. A faint, almost imperceptible scuff mark near the bedside table. He crouched, tracing it with his finger. A struggle, definitely. But no clear evidence of who. “Has anyone else been in here since she was found?” Fred asked, turning to the guard and Marie. “Only myself, Master Detective,” the guard stated, “and Marie, of course. I ensured the chamber remained undisturbed.” Fred sighed internally. “Undisturbed” was a relative term, especially when the main ‘investigator’ was a man in armor. He needed something more concrete. Something he could analyze. He wished for a luminol spray, a UV light, even just a basic magnifying glass. He was flying blind, operating on pure deduction and observation. He examined the locket in the duchess’s hand. It was silver, intricately carved, but empty inside. No portrait, no inscription. Strange. Was it a clue? Or just a personal item she’d tried to hold onto in her last moments? He gently nudged it with his toe, careful not to disturb it further. He'd need to properly bag and tag it, if he had such things. “Did the duchess have any enemies, Marie?” Fred asked, his gaze still sweeping the room, looking for anything out of place. A loose thread, a misplaced trinket, anything that screamed ‘not supposed to be here’. Marie wrung her hands. “Lady Annelise? Never, sir. She was beloved. Kind to everyone. A true lady.” Her voice was laced with genuine sorrow. “Everyone adored her.” Everyone adored her. The classic line. And usually, the first lie in a murder investigation. Fred knew better. Everyone always had enemies, even the most beloved. Or at least, someone who stood to gain. He had to dig deeper than just the immediate household. He needed to talk to people, get a feel for the local gossip, the hidden resentments. “Alright,” Fred said, pushing a hand through his hair. “I need to speak to more people. Anyone who knew her. And I need to do it without an armored escort drawing attention.” He looked at the guard, then at Marie. “I need to blend in. Where would people go to talk? To relax? A tavern? A public house?” “The Rusty Flagon is the most popular establishment in Harvest Ville, sir,” the guard offered. “Many gather there in the evenings.” Fred nodded. “Good. I’ll start there. Keep this room secured. Don’t let anyone else in. And Marie, try to recall anything, no matter how small, that seemed out of place in the last day or two.” Leaving the grim scene, Fred felt a familiar surge of purpose. This was what he did. He solved murders. Even if he was in the middle of nowhere, centuries from home, wearing a suit that probably made him look like a madman. He needed to find his rhythm, adapt, and use his superior knowledge of forensics, even without the tools. He walked out of the manor, the heavy oak doors closing behind him, a strange mix of terror and determination warring within him. --- The sun began its slow descent as Fred made his way through the bustling streets of Harvest Ville. The Rusty Flagon, as advertised, was easy to spot – a two-story building with a weathered sign depicting a frothy tankard. The sounds of raucous laughter, clinking mugs, and lively music spilled out into the street, a stark contrast to the somber quiet of the manor. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, the warm, smoky air enveloping him. The place was packed. Patrons, dressed in various shades of peasant and merchant attire, sat at rough wooden tables, drinking from tankards and eating what smelled like roasted meat. A bard strummed a lute in a corner, singing a bawdy tune. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly what Fred needed. He found an empty stool at the bar, ordering a drink he vaguely recognized as ale. He nursed his drink, listening to snippets of conversation. Slowly, he began to interject, subtly guiding the talk towards the recent tragedy. He spoke of the duchess, asking innocent questions, gauging reactions. Everyone, it seemed, genuinely mourned her. She was a saint, a benefactor, a kind soul who helped the poor and championed local businesses. No one had a bad word to say. It was almost too perfect. “Such a loss, isn’t it?” he said to a burly man with a thick beard, who was nursing a half-empty tankard beside him. “The duchess, gone so soon.” The man sighed heavily. “Aye, a tragedy. Lady Annelise was truly a gem. Harvest Ville won’t be the same without her kind heart.” He shook his head, taking a long swig of his drink. Fred continued his casual questioning, moving from one patron to another, buying a round or two, easing into the local rhythm. He heard only praise, only sorrow. No whispers of scandal, no grudges, no hidden lovers. It was frustratingly clean. Too clean. His eyes scanned the room, searching for anyone who didn’t fit the narrative. And then he saw him. A man sitting alone in a darkened corner, a hood pulled low over his face, barely touching his drink. He wasn't participating in the communal grief. He was observing, an unsettling stillness about him. Fred approached, his senses on high alert. “Evening,” Fred said, trying for a friendly, casual tone. “Heard about the duchess? Terrible business, isn’t it?” The man didn't move. A shadow seemed to cling to him. “Indeed,” a low voice rumbled, barely audible above the din. He didn't look up, didn't offer a name, didn't engage further. Fred persisted, trying a few more questions about the duchess, about the town, about anything. Each attempt was met with silence, or a curt, noncommittal grunt. The man radiated an aura of polite but absolute refusal. This was the wall. This was the person holding back. Fred's gut tightened. This was the guy. Gui Dumont.

Chapter 2: The Duchess