The First Whisper

THE CULPRIT

By 4:00 p.m., Emmanuel had already assembled a group of guards near the river boundary. The sun hung low, painting the water gold.

Exactly 4:30 p.m., Mr. Cranfield appeared, looking cautious and uneasy.

“So,” Emmanuel said from behind, stepping out of the shadows, “you really are a criminal.”

Mr. Cranfield spun around, startled. “Oh my God! Lord Emmanuel what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Emmanuel replied coldly. “Were you expecting the guards?”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Cranfield stammered. “We were supposed to check for the missing money here.”

“Really?” Emmanuel stepped closer. “And what’s in that bag you’re holding?”

Mr. Cranfield’s voice trembled. “A guard gave it to me, sir. He said… it was sent from you.”

“Then hand it over,” Emmanuel ordered.

Cranfield hesitated, then slowly passed him the bag. Emmanuel untied the rope, flipped open the flap and stopped. Inside were bundles of crisp notes, stacked neatly.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

“Oh… really,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “I’ve never seen this type of money in my life—talk less of giving it to you.”

He dropped the bag to the ground with a dull thud.

“And for the record,” Emmanuel said, his voice now icy, “I didn’t send any guard.”

Cranfield’s eyes widened. “Sir, I I don’t know what you mean!”

“Then what,” Emmanuel pressed, stepping closer, “are you doing at the border between Nyleshk and Pitarua?”

“I… I told you,” Cranfield stammered. “We received information that the culprit might be here, so I sent a letter to the guards to meet me.”

Emmanuel gave a short, humorless laugh. “Thanks for the information,” he said softly. “We’ve found the culprit.”

He raised his hand. “Guards take him.”

“No! Lord Emmanuel, please! I’m innocent! I swear!”

But the guards seized him, dragging him toward the automobile. Emmanuel turned away as Cranfield’s pleas echoed behind him.

The door slammed shut.

“Who?” Teren asked sharply, eyes narrowing. “The culprit, of course.”

Emmanuel’s voice hardened. “Mr. Cranfield.”

“What?” Teren shouted, slamming his palm against the table. “Mr. Cranfield? How could he?”

Emmanuel looked away, his jaw tight with anger. “I trusted him. Everyone did.”

Teren shook his head in disbelief. “We really can’t trust anybody these days.”

He took the bundle of money from Emmanuel and walked over to the counter. Placing it inside the machine, he dialed in the exact amount ¥15,000,000.

The machine blinked red.

Emmanuel frowned. “Is it supposed to do that?”

Teren’s brows knitted. “No… it’s not.” He tapped the side of the machine, and tried again, still red.

He reduced the amount to ¥10,000,000.

This time, it flashed green.

“Correct,” the screen read.

Emmanuel and Teren exchanged a look of shock and quiet dread.

“So five million is missing,” Emmanuel said slowly.

Teren’s shoulders slumped. “Your father gave us a deadline to return all the money. What are we going to do?”

Emmanuel inhaled sharply. “We have to cover it unless you want to face him yourself.”

“Where are we supposed to get five million from?” Teren asked, rubbing his temples.

“I’ll talk to my father,” Emmanuel said. “Maybe he’ll give us more time. But before that, find out from Mr. Cranfield where the complete money is… or he’ll lose his head.”

He turned and left, the sound of his boots echoing down the hall.

Teren sank into his chair, staring blankly at the counter. His hands trembled as he whispered to himself,

“Why, Cranfield… why did you do it?”

—

The heavy iron door clanged open, releasing a thick stench of rust and damp air.

Teren stepped inside, his boots echoing against the stone floor of the prison corridor. The guards saluted, then one of them led him through the dim hallway.

Mr. Cranfield sat in a corner cell, slouched, his once-polished uniform now dirty and torn. When he looked up, his eyes were red and hollow like someone who had already accepted death.

“Teren,” he rasped, his voice trembling. “So they sent you.”

Teren folded his arms. “They didn’t send me,” he said coldly. “I came because fifteen million went missing and now five million can’t even be accounted for. The machine caught it, Cranfield. What did you do?”

Mr. Cranfield laughed bitterly, a sound that barely resembled humor. “What did I do? You think I’d steal from the council? From Morin’s treasury? You’ve gone mad.”

“Then where is it?” Teren shot back, stepping closer. “The records show your signature. Emmanuel already suspects you, and if I don’t bring answers before the next council report, you’ll be dead before sunset.”

Cranfield’s smile faded. “You don’t understand, Teren. I didn’t sign anything. The ledger was switched.”

Teren froze. “Switched?”

“Yes. After Adele finished cleaning that day, someone brought another book same color, same cover, same marks. But it wasn’t mine. I told the guard to return it to my office. The next morning, that guard was gone.”

Teren’s brows furrowed. “Gone where?”

“Disappeared,” Cranfield whispered. “Just like the other one who counted the funds.”

Teren stared at him, his chest tightening. It was starting to make too much sense.

“Who brought the second ledger?” he asked.

Cranfield shook his head weakly. “I don’t know his name. He wore a dark uniform… but not from our division. I remember his ring though gold, with the Morin crest.”

Teren’s blood ran cold. “The Morin crest…” he repeated under his breath.

Cranfield leaned forward, gripping the bars. “Teren, listen to me. You’re being played. This isn’t about money, it's about removing someone. And that girl Adele, she's next.”

The cell fell silent except for the distant drip of water.

Teren stepped back slowly, his face pale. “If what you’re saying is true,” he muttered, “then we’re all standing in the middle of a fire and we don’t even see the smoke yet.”

He turned toward the guard. “No one is to touch him,” he ordered. “Not until I speak to Lord Morin myself.”

As he left, Cranfield’s voice echoed through the hallway:

“Be careful, Teren. Once the council names a traitor, no one can save them.”

Teren’s carriage rolled to a stop before the council tower. The guards at the gate stood stiff as statues, their silver spears glinting in the sun. He climbed down, brushing dust from his coat, and walked through the archway that led to the council chamber.

Inside, the air was heavy with incense and silence. Lord Morin sat at the long table, surrounded by scrolls and wax-sealed documents. His expression was unreadable.

“Teren,” he said, not looking up. “You’re late.”

“My apologies, my lord. I was… verifying the records.”

“Ah,” Morin replied, finally meeting his eyes. “And?”

Teren hesitated for a fraction of a second. Say it carefully, he told himself. “The count is short by five million. The ledger appears correct, but the money itself—there’s a discrepancy.”

Morin’s pen stopped. “A discrepancy?” he repeated, his voice dangerously calm. “You are implying theft, then?”

“No, my lord,” Teren said quickly. “Only confusion in the records. It could be a misplacement or—”

Morin leaned back. “Mr. Cranfield already confessed to poor documentation before he was detained. It is not confusionit is incompetence. He will be tried soon.”

Teren’s stomach tightened. He confessed? That was impossible. Cranfield had been terrified, not guilty.

“With respect, my lord,” Teren said carefully, “perhaps we should question the guards assigned to the finance room. One of them disappeared the same night”

Morin’s hand came down sharply on the table. “Enough.”

The word echoed through the chamber. A faint smile touched his lips, but his eyes were cold. “You are a loyal man, Teren. Do not let misplaced sympathy blind you. Focus on your duties. The council appreciates obedience more than opinions.”

Teren bowed slightly. “As you wish, my lord.”

When he turned to leave, he noticed Emmanuel standing near the window. Their eyes met briefly. Emmanuel’s expression was unreadable but there was something new there, something dark.

Outside the chamber, Teren exhaled shakily. His palms were sweating. A guard passed by carrying a sealed envelope stamped with the Morin crest the same mark Cranfield had described.

He froze.

“Where are you taking that?” he asked.

“Orders from Lord Morin,” the guard replied curtly. “Delivery to the judiciary hall trial arrangements for the prisoner.”

Teren watched him walk away, scared about the outcome will he be killed or banished. Cranfield was right. The ring. The crest. Everything was tied to the council itself.