At the moment, restlessness was haunting Clayton whether in a seat or on foot.
After leaving the Manis' ancestral home, the first thing he did was go ask Bruno to conclude the investigation of the Broken-Winged Angel.
At the detective firm, namely Bruno's home, Bruno poured Clayton a cup of tea with sparse, and presumably prized, tea leaves.
"You are here to check on the progress already? We've worked on it for merely a week. Don't expect too much from us."
In no mood to bicker over this, Clayton drained the cup in one go. "That's not what I have in mind. I'm asking you to stop the investigation right away and submit the report to me. The request is to be ended."
"What's wrong? Has anything happened?"
Bruno straightened up, his expression somber.
He remembered Clayton had called the task dangerous.
But Clayton's current expression hardly suggested that the root cause had already been fixed.
"A little accident." Clayton was unwilling to elaborate further.
Having thrown a glance at Clayton's face, Bruno rose to his feet and walked off into the bedroom, bringing back a bottle of liquor in place of the tea on the tabletop.
He poured a sip into Clayton's cup, but then withdrew the mostly remaining booze.
"I will ask the assistant handling it to put together the report as soon as possible, no later than next Friday. Remember to check your mailbox every day."
Clayton nodded and, once again, emptied the cup in one gulp.
"Thanks."
With his business here finished, Clayton wasted no time returning to his home in Saint Modred Parish.
His new housemate worried him.
.....
Within a wall-mounted cabinet in the study, a glass fishbowl housed a pretty-looking girl's head, whose blonde hair floated in the manner of seaweed.
Through the light-twisting curvaceous glass, she saw Clayton let himself into the room, whereupon fury took over her face as she roared.
"Gurgle, gurgle....gurgle, gurgle....."
No bubbles were seen in the fishbowl, but the liquid inside was boiling.
Despite the loss of most of her body, she retained some means to impact the outside world.
Nevertheless, Clayton had already found the stuff curbing her recovery, leaving her no chance to flee in his absence.
The transparent liquid in the fishbowl was not water but a developing solution, which he had bought at a photo studio.
The liquid contained silver halides, also known as silver salts.
Though doing little, if any, damage to Clara, the dilute silver salt solution could at least thwart her recovery process.
Clayton had no plans to immerse her in the fishbowl forever.
He could coax valuable information from the devil, though he could not recall who had told him that.
If he wanted her to speak, he had to remove her from the fishbowl.
Though having displayed her full-blown devilishness and her ugly whole body while in combat, her remaining head looked deceptively charming.
From an outsider's perspective, this was the head of a youthful girl.
Admittedly, a sympathetic emotion had arisen in Clayton, but this would not hinder him from going about his business.
He reached both arms into the aquarium and lifted Clara out.
"Clara, should you be cooperative, I promise you..."
"Poh!"
Clara pouted before the developing solution in her mouth, like an arrow, shot into Clayton's face, blooming in a splash.
"I suppose you should adjust your attitude!"
Clayton's face knitted as he pressed her back into the fish bowl. Then, he dashed into the bathroom and turned on the faucet, washing the solution off his face.
When he came back, he saw Clara trying to swim in the aquarium with her tongue.
He was now in another attempt to remove her from inside, but this time, he had made ample preparations.
"Be a good girl, and I will give you this ----"
Clayton produced a dish of minced raw beef, still dripping with blood. Clara immediately fixated her eyes on it.
He threw a cut of it into the fishbowl.
In the liquid whose density fell short of water's, the slice sank slowly. Clara gaped and sucked it into her mouth, during which a gush of water, having traveled into her mouth, spurted out from beneath her neck, launching her a little higher.
She seemed fond of it.
As Clara chewed and could not spit, he got her out.
Watching as the devil focused on her meal, Clayton felt as though he were feeding a turtle or crab and could not resist a sense of melancholy.
As a farm owner's son, most animals that he had spent time with were large-framed and docile.
Be it an ox, a sheep, or a horse, those grazers, from time to time, had led him to realize that this world held living beings nobler and purer than humans.
Yet now he had sunk so low as to keep a devil.
Keeping a piece of work like Clara was virtually tantamount to degeneration!
Her tender skin felt overly subtle, if not disgusting, to the touch, evoking the flesh of a skinned deceased person.
"Let's begin. How did you go to the Mani family's old home? You can eat more if you tell me this." Clayton lured, pinching a slice of meat in his fingers and giving it a slight shake.
Clara humphed.
The werewolf was unsatisfied with her attitude, but his curiosity was also kindled- how she digested the food without a stomach.
After holding her mouth open, Clayton found himself regretful of this attempt.
The shreds of meat spread flat across her cracked tongue. Her taste buds were abnormally large, squirming as they squeezed the shreds into the cracks.
"Enjoy the rest of your meal. We will talk again a little later," he said to the head.
All Clara's response was a screech.
"Ah!"
The scream tore through the whole building, its sharpness seemingly capable of penetrating one's heart.
Taken aback, Clayton froze for a few seconds before hastily stuffing her back into the fishbowl and covering it with a piece of rag.
Soon afterwards, there came knocks on the door.
Clayton knew who it was without opening the door.
The landlady lived right next door. She must have come over to check what had happened.
Of the few apartments that she owned, Clayton had rented the most expensive one.
The old lady was in her sixties, her face lined with wrinkles, but she remained alert. Tilting her head, she directed her gaze around Clayton into the apartment.
"I seem to have heard a girl scream."
Although Clayton had projected the image of a decent gentleman, given his unwed state, the old lady viewed him as not that credible.
Clayton, also aware of this, stretched his arm across the doorframe, ensuring no barging. "I was boiling water, but something seemed amiss with the kettle. Quite a noise it made. But rest assured. I have handled it and am now disposing of the shards."
The landlady was half-convinced. But since there were no signs of struggle inside, where everything was arranged neatly and tidily, she could only let it drop.
"I will make the maid bring you some boiled water."
"Thanks, thanks..." Clayton feigned deep gratitude and saw her off.
Shutting the door and returning to the study, Clayton's heart was palpitating no less wildly than in a fierce battle.
Should Clara be uncovered, his career in St. Modred Parish would soon meet its end.
It seemed a daunting task to tame Clara step by step, in consideration of her lack of cooperativeness.
Perhaps it was time to consider a move.
At the very least, he needed a place where no others would come inquiring about the noises, however bizarre.
The bustling city centre was a good option.
But it bothered him to think that he would have to write letters informing others of his move.
Clayton consulted Cuitisi's book once again, in search of methods for tightening one's bond with a devil. But his efforts were to no avail.
Perhaps this went beyond the scope of an 'occult enthusiast' or was simply something too basic to be touched upon.
Perhaps the Council could help expand his pool of knowledge.
By then, he would conveniently find out who his evaluator was.
........
"I'm here for Gilead."
Clayton once again arrived at the Chief Constabulary in St. Melon Parish.
It was Sunday. The grand hall was packed with people. For the receptionist to hear him clearly, he had to shout at the top of his lungs.
As he recalled, the evaluator had never told him exactly when he was expected at the Pulitzer Mansion.
Then how was he to attend the banquet?
Gilead was the only member of the Council that he knew, so Clayton had decided to come to him with the question.
The receptionist pointed upstairs, "Mr. Gilead is taking his shift in the archive room as usual."
Clayton climbed upstairs and, in the archive room, saw Gilead, whose face was written with fatigue.
"A banquet surely starts at seven, but since ours is special, no one would mind if you arrive earlier."
Upon hearing his question, Gilead offered an expression of 'why you know nothing'.
"Because we have to work during the day. Some newborns couldn't even ask for leave if they don't want to get fired. Not everyone could idle around like you on weekdays!"
Clayton took a step back. Even though he was not that idle and often squeezed his work in, he knew better than to argue with Gilead for the time being.
Fortunately, Gilead soon calmed down, "I'm sorry, but I don't feel good today."
"Why?"
"Because I shouldn't be working here today. My partner has asked for a last-minute leave, so I have to take over her shift."
But for Mary Eata's private affairs, he would have been free to fish this weekend.
"Some covert action that the Council is up to?" Clayton had misinterpreted his words.
"No. My partner is just an ordinary person."
"Aren't you worried that you might expose yourself at work?"
"No, she feels glad to do that."
He did not say "she has already known" but instead "she feels glad to do that".
Clayton began to guess the job responsibilities.
Since it was 'she' instead of 'he', Clayton surmised that it might be a woman with violent mania. After all, a constable often had to subdue criminals, which was neither proper nor easy for a lady.
Without a particular interest, presumably, no woman would become a constable.
A woman like this was literally rare.
As Clayton mulled this over, Mary Eata, a female constable as well, crossed his mind. So he was about to ask.
Yet, Gilead was the faster to speak, in a meaningful tone, "By the way, the reason for her leave is her betrothal, which might be good news for you."
Once she got married, Mary Eata might no longer have enough energy to expend investigating Clayton.
But Clayton, who failed to grasp the meaning behind his words, only thought Gilead should keep his mouth shut if he didn't have nice things to say.