Chapter 207
Chapter 207: William Osmond, Dead! (1)
What had Saint-Germain said? Ah yes, that finding the informant among them wouldn’t be difficult. I’d tried to ask for details about this method, but Saint-Germain had just given an enigmatic smile and refused to answer.
When I fell silent, lost in thought, Jonathan watched me anxiously. He asked nervously:
“Are you okay, sis? Want to lie down again?”
“I’m fine. Don’t need to lie down.”
The injection Saint-Germain had given me earlier must have been a painkiller. The dull ache in my body was subsiding. Though my body felt comfortable enough to sleep, my mind was racing to understand the situation. I decided to stay standing, knowing if I lay down now, I’d lose my train of thought. Besides, thinking about the upcoming funeral, I couldn’t just stretch out comfortably.
“…They’re having a funeral?”
I asked quietly. It felt rather inappropriate to discuss this in front of the peacefully sleeping Liam.
“The church is booked, and we’ve already sent out the obituaries. Everyone from the company said they’ll attend. We’ll head straight to the church at dawn.”
Already? That was fast.
Jonathan had handled everything with remarkable efficiency, as if he’d been waiting for this day. He said he wished he could personally carry Liam’s coffin to the church. That he almost wished the death wasn’t fake.
I couldn’t help but smile ambiguously at that. Even after more than a century, Jonathan still seemed to dislike Liam. It was just, how should I put it… Their personalities simply didn’t mesh.
“When are you two going to get along?”
I asked, feeling like I was trying to placate a seven-year-old. Jonathan answered coldly:
“Never going to happen.”
“Right. I thought so. Sorry. I’ll stop dreaming.”
* * *
The news of William Osmond’s death was enough to shock the people of the “company.” To them, William Osmond had seemed like someone who would never die.
William Osmond was an exceptional person. Perhaps it was his eyes, but even without any magical power, as an ordinary person, he had an overwhelming presence. Moreover, with the “President’s” protection, who would dare touch him?
At least in this world, in this industry as two-sided as a coin, no one dared to easily challenge William Osmond. Even the cultists under his surveillance, though they resented his attention, couldn’t directly move against him for the same reason.
Furthermore, anyone who had met him knew how obsessively William Osmond cared about his well-being. How meticulously that young man watched his health. Once, when someone asked him, “Why do you take such extreme care of your health?” he’d answered, “Because it makes someone I care about happy.” How could someone who took vitamins with every meal, claiming he wanted to live long for his loved one (presumably a romantic partner), die so easily?
People read the obituary several times, discussing at length who could possibly have killed this young man, and entered the church wondering if this might be some cruel prank.
But what greeted them was a white coffin adorned with elegant vine patterns. The coffin lid was partially open to show the deceased’s face, allowing people to clearly see William Osmond in his peaceful eternal rest. A brief murmur passed through the crowd. Someone couldn’t help but speak out:
“That man really died…?”
* * *
Pierre Saint-Germain, wearing a black suit instead of his usual white, delivered a brief greeting to the mourners. This was followed by a lengthy eulogy about what a faithful proxy William Osmond had been.
I’d never known Saint-Germain was such an eloquent speaker. You could tell by how the listeners were moved to tears. I covered my mouth with a handkerchief, trying not to smile. With my face scrunched up, I must have looked appropriately grief-stricken.
Finally, Saint-Germain urged that everyone from the “company” should remember William Osmond’s dedication.
“May we remember what William Osmond did for us all.”
A brief, soft applause followed his closing words.
Jonathan sat beside me, as did Ian. Ian seemed uncomfortable with his tie, shifting and adjusting his posture before letting out a deep sigh.
There were many people around us. It felt strange thinking they all knew William Osmond. I hadn’t realized so many people knew a Liam I didn’t know.
The coffin was partially open so people could see Liam’s face.
Under the covered part, hidden from view, special arrangements had been made to administer “Saint-Germain’s Special Formula, It Stings!” Liam lying there was in a near-death state from the drug’s effects.
Whatever Saint-Germain had done with that suspiciously-named drug, Liam truly looked dead. Not only was his complexion corpse-like and pale, but his breathing and heartbeat were so faint you couldn’t detect them without putting your ear right up against him.
I wonder what Liam, dressed in black funeral clothes, was thinking right now? It’s a shame I couldn’t ask.
People who remembered Liam were leaving messages one after another for Saint-Germain. The Liam in their memories was someone I both knew and didn’t know.
“I can’t believe he’s dead. And in such a tragic accident…”
Yes, it had been tragic. Some crazed attacker had not only rammed his car but had even shot Liam as he tried to escape. Of course, officially, William Osmond was reported to have died in a “traffic accident.” No one questioned this, as it had been such a severe crash that survival seemed impossible to anyone who saw it.
I tried to think sad thoughts. But no matter how hard I tried, perhaps due to tension, tears wouldn’t come. Seeing my predicament, Ian discreetly passed me a small piece of cut onion.
“Aunt, use this.”
“Ian, I’m tearfully grateful…”
After some hesitation, I carefully rubbed the tiny piece near my eyes. The sharp sensation made my eyes sting, and tears naturally flowed. Watching this, Jonathan whispered to me with a shocked expression:
“Sis, is this because… I said you couldn’t act? You didn’t have to go this far…”
What else could I do? It would look strange if a wife didn’t shed a single tear at her husband’s funeral.
I wiped away my tears. Occasionally, mourners who learned I was William Osmond’s wife would offer words of consolation. Each time, I had to force a sad smile and respond with pleasantries like “Thank you so much. He would be happy you came.”
If our plan worked, Liam would regain consciousness around the middle of the funeral. While the coffin was briefly closed to move it to the crematorium behind the chapel, we planned to replace the drug-worn-off Liam with a fake. Since we had Pierre Saint-Germain, who was experienced in creating fake bodies, even if someone opened the coffin then, they wouldn’t notice Liam had been switched.
A brief intermission came during the funeral. It seemed British funerals had various procedures, so it was natural for the funeral to be lengthy.
Meanwhile, Saint-Germain was exchanging greetings with the executives. Though there were many people, no one particularly stood out. The age range was quite diverse, from very elderly to middle-aged, to those who appeared to be in their mid-to-late thirties.
Could there really be a traitor among them? As I watched from a distance, pondering this, Ian explained to me about the correlation between magic and mental states, and what was needed to use spells efficiently. I wasn’t sure if this information would really help me, but it was better to know and possibly use it someday than not know at all.
Ian also gave me a crash course on various curses that could incapacitate opponents. He explained that ample magical power was essential for casting spells. I’d never known spells had so many names.
“Why do you only know such evil spells?”
When I asked, Ian frowned.
“Aunt, I’m a researcher. You think they only use a few spells over there? Cults aim for maximum suffering for maximum numbers. To deal with those who only care about their own happiness and treat everyone else as potential sacrifices, you need to know how to be just as ruthless.”
“Hmm.”
“Especially if that guy we saw at the Westminster mansion, and that actual leader you saw in the photo—if their goal is to kill you and Uncle.”
Just as we were having this conversation, Jonathan, sitting next to me, suddenly tensed up. Having seen him pack his pockets full of tasers and gas guns before we left in case of emergency, I wondered if this was some kind of signal. Jonathan gripped my arm and whispered softly:
“The President gave the signal.”
