*The Red Pendulum*

Nanami Ito sat in the high-backed wing chair, holding the porcelain cup with both hands as if to extract warmth from it. The tea, as usual, had arrived at precisely the wrong moment. It had been poured just as she knelt to examine the dead man’s slippers, and now, ten minutes later, it had descended into a tepid, bitter purgatory. She took a sip anyway. It was polite to drink what you were given, and Nanami, a restorer of antique paper by trade and an uninvited detective by circumstance, was rigorously polite.

"You are staring at the desk," Kenjiro said. His voice was sharp, carrying the precise, clipping consonants of a man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed before the echo faded. He stood by the window of the grand study, arms crossed. "The police have already photographed it."

"I am staring at the desk," Nanami agreed, setting