Chapter 142: Opening the Coffin for Autopsy!
Two days later, early autumn brought a fine drizzle. Even after the rain subsided, the sky remained gloomy.
By midday, candles were already flickering in the imperial study. Outside, the white jade steps led toward the exquisite palace with carved beams,and painted rafters, bright light streaming through the half-open windows.
When Miguel arrived, the guards ushered him inside.
The triple doors swung open, revealing Doyle in his formal robes.
He was reading a memorial, and as he scanned the lines, he began to laugh.
Miguel bowed with cupped hands: "Greetings, Father."
Doyle looked up, immediately raising a hand in a beckoning gesture: "Miguel, come, let me show you something."
Miguel walked over, and took the memorial from Doyle's hand.
A single glance was enough to make his eyebrows rise in surprise.
The memorial had been written by Marlon, and it was tilted: On Michael's Death.
Following Michael's passing, Marlon had made a special trip to the cell where Michael had been held.
Though it had been thoroughly cleaned, Marlon still found a few clues.
For instance, he discovered remnants of straw rope at the base of the iron bars, and corresponding marks from violent kicks on the lower wall of the cell.
These findings led Marlon to conclude that Michael had not committed suicide, but had been strangled to death.
Doyle stood beside Miguel, stroking his beard with a mocking laugh: "Finished reading? Isn't it ridiculous? He even suggests that if we just open the coffin,and examine Michael's body, checking whether his neck was broken side to side or front to back, we can determine if it was murder."
Miguel placed the memorial back on the imperial desk, saying: "Marlon's investigations are never wrong. If he says there's a problem, then there's a problem."
Doyle's laughter continued , but his eyes grew darker as he looked at Miguel.
"So you also find Michael's death suspicious? Then why, a few days ago, when Michael was locked up and everyone in court was pleading for him, didn't you speak up for him?"
"I didn't want to."
"Why not?"
"I don't dare say."
"Speak!" Doyle's expression shifted instantly, his face stern. "You and I are father and son—what's there to fear? Speak!"
Miguel's handsome face remained calm, displaying a composure forged on the battlefield.
He smiled slightly, like a piece of jade with sharp edges.
"If I speak, wouldn't I be badmouthing Sophie?"
"What's there to fear? There are no outsiders here, just you and me."
"Then I'll say it. Whether Michael killed himself or was murdered doesn't matter. What matters is that pawning official robes for money can't be tolerated anymore. Years ago, that client Sophie recommended for office—his lover privately stole a seal, used it to steal books and rent them out for money. A similar incident has already happened once. If someone dares to do it again, it means the punishment wasn't severe enough back then. If no one fears it, the law loses its power to deter."
Doyle stroked his beard: "Back then, Sophie swore up and down that the client didn't know anything. That's the only reason I didn't sentence him to immediate death."
"How would a lover with no background dare steal an official's seal?" Miguel smiled. "Sophie has always been like this. Who knows if she had a hand in this recent incident too?"
Doyle raised his eyebrows.
Miguel immediately bowed to Doyle.
"Father, I told you I shouldn't badmouth Sophie. You insisted on hearing it."
"I didn't say you were wrong," Doyle's smile was inscrutable. "Miguel, do you know why I'm the only one comfortable with you holding military power?"
"Because I'm exceptional."
"You little rascal, not a shred of modesty—not like Marshall, who puts on such a good show in front of me." Doyle laughed again.
This time Miguel didn't respond.
Doyle clasped his hands behind his back: "I trust you because you're the least inclined to hide your true nature, and you never actively fight for anything. I'm at ease with you. When Michael's case first broke, the palace officials all pleaded for him—what kind of solidarity is that? I hadn't even decided how to handle Michael, yet the court officials kept pressing me to issue orders. Has the Hamilton family's prestige grown so great? I had no idea."
Miguel's expression remained unchanged. "It looks like multiple factions fighting, but it's really a contest between Sophie and the stepmother."
"Well said," Doyle patted Miguel's shoulder. "At this moment, High Judge Marlon still dares to submit a memorial investigating Michael's death. Miguel, make a trip to The Hamilton Mansion for me."
"What does Father wish for me to do?"
Doyle turned around, raising his palm to touch the beads he usually played with.
His voice was deep, carrying a natural authority: "Since he's dead, let him be buried soon and rest in peace."
At that moment, in the Perpetual Pavilion where the body lay, low sobbing could be heard.
Clio, surrounded by servants and clan relatives, gently placed white daisies beside the floral arrangement at the altar.
Cressida, dressed in a plain white gown, received the noble ladies who came to pay their respects nearby; Donny and Reid entertained the male guests together.
These past two days, mourners had come in an endless stream. Whatever thoughts they harbored in their hearts, their faces all wore expressions of grief and regret.
Patrick had even fallen ill because of this.
To spare him worry and effort, Cressida had taken on all the funeral arrangements herself.
Quite a few guests had already visited, and Bella had even sent a protocol officer from the palace to assist. Everyone praised Cressida's capability—working from dawn to dusk without showing the slightest fatigue, only slightly red-rimmed eyes, her whole person radiating a clean and efficient bearing.
The weather turned cold. Cressida had warm sweet ginger tea prepared for guests in the side hall. She had just quietly instructed Emma to add a few white candles when she turned and saw Peter and his father Marlon walking in.
Marlon was followed by four guards—clearly not a friendly visit.
Cressida's expression didn't change. When Marlon approached, she curtsied slightly: "Mr. Nguyen."
Marlon nodded in return: "Ms. Hamilton, pardon the intrusion."
Peter also bowed in greeting, and feeling somewhat familiar with Cressida, spoke directly: "Ms. Hamilton, my father suspects Michael didn't commit suicide. He hopes to open the coffin for an autopsy."
Jessica, who had just walked over, happened to hear this and looked shocked: "Autopsy?" Fortunately, her voice wasn't loud and didn't alert the surrounding guests.
Jessica stared at Peter, her tone angry: "Peter, do you have any respect for Cressida? Michael just passed away, the whole family is immersed in grief, and you want Mr. Nguyen to open the coffin for an autopsy!"
Peter quickly explained: "Jessica, I just don't want Michael to die without knowing the truth. Besides, my father says he only needs to examine Michael's neck to determine if it was murder or suicide."
Marlon then bowed to Cressida: "Ms. Hamilton, I know this request is quite abrupt, but Michael's death is too suspicious. All of Emerald City mourns for him. Look at your mother—she's aged so much these past few days."
"I've already submitted a memorial to His Majesty explaining the suspicious points. If today's autopsy confirms my suspicions, His Majesty will surely launch a thorough investigation into Michael's death, find the real killer, and bring peace to his spirit."
Cressida gazed at him. Marlon was known as the "Iron-Faced Judge"—every suspicious or wrongful case that passed through his hands was solved without exception. Once he took action, no truth remained hidden.
Jessica wanted to argue further, but Cressida pulled her back. Cressida said calmly: "The authorities concluded that Michael committed suicide because he heard the jailers talking in prison, learned he'd brought trouble to his family, and couldn't bear the shame, so he chose to end his life."
"But if Mr. Nguyen believes there's more to his death, even though my father and mother are grief-stricken, I must get to the bottom of it." She stepped aside, clearing the path. "Mr. Nguyen, please."
Marlon nodded: "My apologies for the offense." He walked toward Michael's coffin, and under the pretext of offering flowers and paying respects, reached his hand into the casket.
Cressida watched his movements, everything around her seeming to freeze in this moment.