Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Heinrich lowered his head and began to read the numbers.

Richard turned to Thomas: "The materials need improvement, and the gunpowder needs improvement too. To maintain stable chamber pressure, I've calculated the optimal diameter for the propellant wire, it's on page four. If there are any problems, feel free to correct me."

Thomas turned to page four, his eyes quickly scanning the dense formulas and numbers: "Of course."

Richard shifted his gaze to the far right.

Andrew frowned as he looked at the lines of small print.

He placed the documents on the table and picked up a magnifying glass from next to Richard's pen holder. It had a brass frame, a black hard rubber handle, and a thin layer of dust on the lens, indicating it hadn't been used in a long time.

Andrew held the magnifying glass up to the light, took a white handkerchief out of his pocket, breathed on the lens, and then carefully wiped the surface of the lens with the edge of the handkerchief.

Richard picked up his glass of whiskey and took a sip.

"This kind of gunpowder burns at extremely high temperatures," he explained clearly, "so the coefficient of expansion of the inner lining steel also needs to be adjusted accordingly..."

He didn't finish his sentence.

Andrew's hand suddenly stopped, and the magnifying glass, which he had polished to a shine, slipped from his fingers and hit the document.

His complexion changed from its normal rosy hue to a strange pink, as if it had been scrambled with a razor, and white foam spilled from the corners of his mouth.

Immediately afterwards, his body lurched forward, and his forehead slammed into the wooden table in front of him.

boom!

The documents on the table were jolted into the air, the glass of whiskey spilled, and the amber liquid soaked the documents, trickling down the edge of the table.

The office fell silent; everyone's breathing seemed to be synchronized for several seconds.

Heinrich sprang up from his chair, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a piercing scream.

He stumbled back several steps until his shin hit the bookshelf behind him, causing several thick engineering books to slide off.

Heinrich looked down at the glass of whiskey in his hand, then threw it away as if he had been electrocuted, smashing it against the wall and splashing it everywhere.

Thomas remained frozen in his chair, his fingers trembling slightly as he gripped the file. His pupils dilated as he stared in horror at the silent Andrew.

Richard panicked too.

He stood up, walked around the desk, came to Andrew's side, and patted him on the shoulder with both hands.

"Sir? Mr. Andrew?"

No response.

Andrew's arms hung limply at his sides, like a doll with its strings cut and filled with lead.

Richard pressed his fingers against the side of his neck; the skin was still warm, but the pulse beneath his fingertips had stopped beating. Richard closed his eyes and sighed.

Heinrich stared nervously at Richard's pale face and asked the question they both knew the answer to: "How is it?"

Richard opened his eyes and shook his head: "He's dead."

"Dead? How could that be?" Thomas's voice became shrill. "He was perfectly fine just a second ago, how could he suddenly be dead?"

Richard bent down, brought his nose close to Andrew's slightly open mouth, and took a gentle sniff.

Besides the smell of whiskey, his breath also carried a faint, sweet aroma reminiscent of bitter almonds.

He straightened up as if by reflex and took half a step back.

"It was cyanide." He covered his nose with his hand. "Someone poisoned him with cyanide."

Heinrich's face turned pale instantly, and he unconsciously covered his stomach with his hand, staring at the whiskey glass he had thrown away in the corner.

"Then... what do we do now?" His voice was hoarse, and his panic was palpable.

Richard, seeing his face contorted with fear and tension, quickly reassured him, "Don't worry, if the poison was in the wine, we would be dead already."

Heinrich paused for a moment after hearing this, then pressed his finger on his stomach again, as if to check if his stomach was churning.

Then he slid down against the bookshelf, buried his head in his hands on the carpet in Richard's office, and muttered, "How could this happen?"

Richard was also thinking about this problem.

If the killer put cyanide in the drink, the person who drank it should already be passed out.

But he didn't.

If the poison was put in the cup, how could the killer be so sure that Andrew would use that cup?

Seven or eight identical cups were placed together, and no one but himself had touched them.

Richard's temples throbbed with tension, and his veins pulsated beneath his skin.

He turned around and looked at the two bewildered people: "I'm afraid you two can't go back for the time being. I need your cooperation to find out what's going on."

Thomas nodded, still shaken, and Heinrich reluctantly agreed.

Richard strode to the door and shouted to a guard, "I need this factory shut down immediately! Also, get Reginald here! And the Scotland Yard police!"

Without asking any further questions, the guard stood at attention, turned around, and jogged off.

Soon, the entire factory was sealed off by the police.

The workers were concentrated in the workshop, and no one was allowed to enter or leave, so the assembly of the hydraulic presses naturally came to a halt.

Only Richard and Reginald, who had rushed over after hearing the news, remained in the office.

Reginald held the briar pipe in his mouth, but didn't light it. He just swayed the pipe up and down a couple of times around his mouth.

"Why does death always seem to be circling around you, Richard?" he asked, his tone surprisingly relaxed as he rested his hand on his pipe.

Richard scratched his head: "That's not on my wish list."

He thought for a moment, then looked away from the corpse and at Reginald: "So, any ideas? You're from the Secret Service, you should know the most about drugs. Is there any cyanide that could prolong his death?"

Reginald raised an eyebrow and replied nonchalantly, "First of all, the Secret Service doesn't research poisons all the time. Secondly, there isn't a highly toxic cyanide substance in the world that can delay death, unless... you have some new invention you're keeping from me."

Richard rolled his eyes; he was starting to regret calling this old fox over.

Detective Logan stood at the door. He and Richard had investigated the death of a customs officer together and eventually arrested Hans.

He saw Andrew's body, ignored Reginald, walked straight over, and circled the body.

Then he took out a pair of white cotton gloves from his pocket, put them on, bent down and gently flipped Andrew's eyelids, and then looked closely at the white foam remaining at the corner of Andrew's mouth.

Reginald waited a moment, then tilted his head and asked Logan, "So? Did you figure anything out?"

Logan straightened up and gave Reginald an impatient smirk. "It's obvious he was murdered."

Reginald widened his eyes dramatically, opened his mouth, and made a mocking face.

"No way!" he exclaimed, feigning surprise. "When did your observation skills become so sharp?"

Richard sighed. "Can you two stop bickering?" His voice wasn't loud, but it was firm.

Reginald chuckled and turned his face away.