"Hmm… Now that I've heard the professor's words, it does make sense."
"Right? Look at that cross-section. It wasn't cut in a single stroke."
"Yes. You're correct."
"And if you look at the stab wounds here… At first glance, they might seem deep, but if you examine them closely, they're actually shallow."
Professor Liston continued speaking with an air of unshakable confidence.
Normally, seeing something like this would have left me feeling dismayed, but today was different.
A truly professional aura radiated effortlessly from him.
Thinking about it, it made sense.
After all, this man had likely wielded a blade against human flesh more than anyone else in the world.
Saying it like that made it sound eerie, but this held true not just in the 19th century—it would still apply even in the 21st.
Frankly, aside from doctors, who else would have had such frequent and prolonged contact with blades against human bodies?
Even legendary heroes might have cut down a few hundred people in their lifetimes at most…
But Liston handled hundreds every month.
"What's going on here?"
As the others—excluding me—began a heated discussion, the crowd started dispersing around us.
What surprised me was that many of the onlookers were families.
Judging by their clothing and the scents lingering around them, they all seemed to be from the upper class.
Well, I suppose only the idle rich would have the leisure and money to come gawk at corpses…
Ah.
The shout had come from someone who appeared to be either a police officer or a security guard.
It was a bit shocking that they hadn't intervened earlier when young children—barely old enough for kindergarten—were staring at the body, but now they suddenly appeared.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right?
I put on a suitably remorseful expression and stepped forward.
"Ah, my apologies."
I blurted it out in English before realizing that this was France, and the French disliked the English just as much as the English disliked them.
Ah, and also, I was Asian.
Come to think of it, whenever I was with Dr. Liston, no one dared to look at me with such disdain. Plus, we always frequented the same places, so I hadn't even been aware of it.
"Ah, haha. Well, you see. These are doctors from London. They're here for the conference…"
"Why are they here?"
As the atmosphere grew awkward, the coachman quickly stepped in.
Despite being English, he had the smooth-talking charm of someone who had settled in Paris.
In any case, the profession of a doctor never seemed suspicious, no matter the era.
Surprisingly, even in the 19th century, that held true.
Despite being a profession that dealt constantly with death…
Thanks to that, the guard's expression softened slightly as he asked,
"London doesn't have a morgue like this, does it?"
"Ah-ha. Well, of course, London wouldn't have such advanced culture. The English have no appreciation for artistic refinement."
"Exactly! Haha. Anyway… Do you see that man over there?"
"A bodyguard? He looks extraordinary."
"Ah, no. That's Dr. Liston…"
"Ah!"
"You know him?"
"If it's Sword Master Liston, then of course. I've heard he's a warrior worthy of respect, even if he is English."
"Well…"
Since I hadn't learned French, I wasn't sure what they were saying, but the atmosphere seemed to be improving.
The coachman's expression turned strange, while the guard's grew brighter.
"That's right. A warrior."
Then, suddenly, the guard's face lit up with realization—an expression I'd seen just recently.
When was it…?
Ah, right. After we were attacked by bandits.
—Aaaah! Take everything, just spare our lives!
They had screamed bloody murder.
In contrast, our group of doctors had remained completely unfazed.
Even though we were outnumbered five to one, Liston had beaten down over ten rough sailors—known for their brutality—bare-handed.
No, wait—with a scabbard?
Anyway, the moment he cleanly severed the arm of the first attacker who charged at him, they had all made that same dumbfounded expression.
It was the look of someone whose mind had just gone blank.
"But what is such an esteemed man doing now?"
"Ah… He's deducing the culprit."
"Huh? Is he a detective?"
"N-no, well…"
The coachman floundered before spotting me lingering nearby and sent me an SOS with his eyes.
Since I was curious about the conversation anyway, I naturally stepped in.
"What's he saying?"
"There's a lot to explain, but… In short, he's asking why we're deducing the killer."
"Ah. Could you translate for me?"
"Of course."
Well, it was a question anyone might ask.
But at the very least, the people here shouldn't be asking it.
Even though I didn't speak French, I could still tell what everyone was thinking while looking at the corpse.
They were all playing detective, weren't they?
"Dr. Liston and I often assist the police in London in catching criminals."
"Oh… Is that so? How…?"
"Who better to examine wounds than a skilled surgeon?"
"Ah… A surgeon. I only knew him as a warrior."
"He is a warrior, but he's more famous as a surgeon… Or, well, never mind. Yes. Would you like to hear our thoughts?"
"Please."
Midway through the conversation, I realized this wasn't just a guard—he was likely a police officer.
Definitely someone worth knowing.
Especially now, with Paris in such a turbulent state.
The July Revolution…
As a science major, I'd only skimmed through world history, but I knew that even after the revolution, things either stayed the same or worsened, leaving the city in a grim state.
'Well, even if that's not entirely accurate…'
Just looking at London, the police were inevitably helpful.
After all, I'd personally received their assistance before.
If we said, "Hey, we're the ones who amputated your commissioner's mother's leg!" they'd all panic spectacularly.
"What is it?"
"He's with the Paris police… He says he'd like your help with the deduction."
So I brought the officer over to Professor Liston.
Upon facing Liston directly, the officer's legs seemed to tremble slightly, and he lowered his gaze.
No one blamed him for it.
That was just wisdom, not cowardice.
"Ah, good. I've actually figured out a few things already. It'd be even better if we could get inside this glass enclosure."
"Ah, he says you can go in."
"Really? Perfect. Let's go."
"Right."
And so, we were granted access to the back of Paris's mortuary.
The onlookers stared at us with unmistakable envy.
Did these people know that, in the 21st century, forensic pathology would become an unpopular field?
Well, to be fair, throughout human history, professions dealing with corpses had never been particularly welcomed.
"Here it is."
"Ugh, the smell."
"It's an enclosed space."
"No, why would they even display something like this?"
At Liston's remark, the officer's lips twitched slightly.
It seemed to have struck a nerve with their national pride, but it didn't matter.
Unless someone was pointing a gun at him, Liston was the kind of man who could say whatever he pleased without consequence.
"Ahem, let's focus on the deduction…"
"Ah, right. No time to criticize the French and their morbid tastes now."
Muttering something about morbid tastes, Liston approached the corpse.
The smell was unpleasant, but compared to the dissection lab, it was nothing.
At least the body wasn't too old, so there was no rotting stench yet.
The coachman stayed back, only capable of basic translation, but the rest of us—hardened by experience—approached without hesitation.
This time, even I did.
Since things had already come this far, I felt compelled to help in some way.
'And here I am, spectating again…'
One thing that bothered me was the crowd outside the glass.
Somehow, there were even more people now—not just dozens, but hundreds.
"Look here, Pyeong."
"Yes."
"You can see… the blade didn't go very deep."
Liston deftly slipped his gloved hand into the wound, prying it open.
Even then, the abdominal cavity wasn't visible—meaning only the skin had been cut.
"You're right."
"But here, out of four stabs, only one reached inside… And it just so happened to…"
"Hit the aorta."
"Exactly. That's what killed him."
"Wait… But this…"
The more I examined the wounds, the stranger they seemed.
They were too vertical.
If both the attacker and the victim were standing…
Would this even be possible?
My knowledge of forensics was limited to what I'd learned in school, but even so, something felt off.
"What's wrong?"
"It looks like he was stabbed while lying down."
"Lying down?"
"Yes. All four stabs have the same angle…"
"Ah, you're right. Was he unable to resist? Or was he stabbed after death…? Strange. You can't just cut up a living person's limbs like this. He must have been dead first."
Yes, Liston's reasoning made sense.
But it was also odd for someone to lie still while being stabbed four times.
Unless they were anesthetized…
Anesthesia?
"Could he have been anesthetized before being stabbed?"
"Anesthesia? Ah… Right. That would make sense."
"But how would you gas someone without consent…"
"No, I've heard they use ether for anesthesia in Paris."
"Ah…"
"These people insist on doing the opposite of whatever we do."
Ah.
I knew that.
Cars became popular in England a bit later than in France because France had legislated right-hand traffic first, so England went with left-hand driving instead.
Ah… Actually, that was England being contrarian.
Well…
It's the same both ways, isn't it?
"Anyway, if that's the case… They could've soaked a handkerchief in ether or mixed it into something he ate."
"Ah… So the culprit either handles ether or at least bought some recently?"
The officer listening to our deductions widened his eyes.
They had been investigating tirelessly, but investigative methods at this time were…
Basically just asking around for witnesses.
The arrest rate was abysmally low.
It was no wonder people longed for legendary detectives like Sherlock Holmes.
"This is a huge lead. Thank you… Thank you."
"Good, go catch them. Let me know when you do."
"Why, what for?"
"Just want to see their face. Why? Is that a problem?"
"N-no… Not at all. We'll bring them to you first."
With that, the officer rushed out, looking like he finally had a solid lead.
Only then did the coachman exhale deeply and speak up.
"Please, let's just go. I shouldn't have come here…"