To be a good prime minister, I first became the leader of a secret religion.

Chapter 36 The Whistler

Winston made a casual remark based on guesswork, and the Viscountess may have been momentarily moved, which Winston could see. However, she quickly composed herself and said coldly:

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Winston wanted to say a few more words of advice, but a maid hurried over and whispered a few words in the Viscountess's ear.

"..."

"...Charlie's back? Okay, I got it."

The Viscountess turned to Winston, her inhuman face hidden behind a veil. "Didn't you want to see the Viscount? He's in his study right now."

For some reason, Winston suddenly sensed a strong malice in the Viscountess's gaze. Her eyes seemed like two tunnel entrances covered by white spiderwebs, through which some dark and decaying being peered out.

It was as if she were frantically cursing Winston to die in her heart.

Damn it, it seems we can rule out the option of friendly forces.

This was the first time Winston had faced such malice that was almost a death threat. He thought he would be somewhat nervous and hesitant, but in fact, at this moment, his heart was surprisingly calm.

In order not to disappoint the Viscountess's malice, Winston even smiled slightly at her.

This surging, viscous malice vanished in an instant. The Viscountess seemed somewhat surprised, but quickly returned to her usual demeanor, expressionless, and strode downstairs.

Winston remained calm, but that didn't stop him from being extremely vigilant. He turned back to call out to Margaret, lest his group scatter and end up in the classic situation of a horror movie's main characters. He followed behind the Viscountess, asking as he walked:

"Are we heading to the study?"

Viscountess: "No, we should go back to the drawing room. You all want to see the Viscount, but he only meets with people individually, so you must line up in the order of arrival."

That makes sense, but I wasn't like that when I was prime minister. It seems the viscount is more powerful than me.

When Winston went down to the first floor, he heard a lively discussion. With the host gone and the guests getting to know each other better, the salon finally started to resemble a salon, but the theme had nothing to do with reading anymore.

There were discussions about Prime Minister Winston, recent criminal cases, stock market stocks, and fortune telling—the fortune teller was Eileen, who claimed to be a psychic and was currently holding a stack of tarot cards, talking to a young woman with a worried look on her face.

Winston only caught snippets of conversation carried by the wind: "...My daughter's a lunatic too, just like her father, whistling all day long, endlessly, it's so annoying..."

The rest of the conversation became indistinct. Winston stepped into the meeting room, and Eileen immediately turned around as if sensing something. Just then, Winston heard a cold voice coming from behind him:

"You will die, and even Bozis King of the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce can't save you."

Winston instantly braced himself for calling for v1888, turning around to ask, "Madam?"

The Viscountess remained expressionless and said calmly, "What is it?"

What did you mean by what you just said?

Viscountess: "I didn't say anything, you must have misheard me."

But Winston thought about it again, and it was indeed the Viscountess's voice. Under everyone's watchful eyes, he temporarily suppressed his doubts and returned to his seat. Margaret Lisa's expression was still not good. She followed him into the depths of the drawing room, and instead of sitting back on the sofa, she found an empty spot to stand.

"Charlie is back," said the Viscountess. "Those who wish to see him may go to the study in order; Mr. Ackerman, you are the first."

The middle-aged man who had previously declared righteously that he was "attending this salon to exchange reading experiences" suddenly jumped up, his face flushed, and left with the maid.

Then, the Viscountess said she was feeling unwell and went to rest in a small room connected to the drawing room, telling everyone to pass the time as they pleased, and that they could leave at any time without having to tell the host.

The atmosphere in the drawing room grew increasingly relaxed, but beneath the relaxation lingered a secret sense of urgency. Everyone was waiting for the opportunity to meet Viscount Hammond, and how long they would have to wait depended on how long the person before them had spoken with the Viscount—no wonder the Viscount even offered everyone the option of staying overnight.

Eileen stroked the tarot cards in her palm for a moment, then asked, "So, everyone here is here to meet the Viscount?"

"That's right, I've heard that there are some things that only he can solve," said the woman who had consulted her fortune teller. "I don't have any problems that I can't talk about. My husband is a madman. He whistles every day, and now this habit has been passed on to my daughters. They whistle when they go out, when they sleep, when they take a shower, and even when they eat. I'm almost driven crazy by the whistling that's everywhere."

These words had clearly been bottled up inside her for a long time, and in front of her fellow patients, she could no longer hold back and began to complain loudly.

"Can you imagine that feeling? At first, when my husband was my fiancé, I thought the tune was kind of cute. Several times, I asked him what tune he was playing, and he just smiled and never answered me. So I guessed that he composed the tune himself and praised him for his musical talent. Now I think I should never have praised him."

"That song kept playing more and more, it wouldn't leave my ears, the sound was so sharp it was like a singing insect, I couldn't stand it anymore and told him to shut up, but he pretended not to hear me."

"And then guess what? I got married, my daughter was born, and as a baby, the first words she learned weren't 'daddy' and 'mommy,' but whistling. I saw it with my own eyes; she was lying in her crib, her pink lips pouting as if she wanted to suck on a pacifier, and the next second she started whistling, the whistling sounding like an alarm, going on and on and on and on and on and on..."

The woman's description made everyone present feel slightly uncomfortable, and the young man sitting by the window rudely interrupted her:

"Alright, may the stars bless you. We understand, you can stop now."

The woman shut her mouth, and after a while said again:

"Anyway, someone introduced me to Viscount Hammond, saying he could cure my damned husband and daughter."

"Me too, to tell you the truth, a professor from Oxford University recommended Viscount Hammond to me," the young man said worriedly. "I...I have a friend who has a mole on his stomach."

Margaret asked curiously, "What's so special about moles?"

The young man shifted his hips as if he found it difficult to speak, and emphasized again in an attempt to cover up the truth: "I'm just telling you what my friend told me—ordinary moles are fine, of course, but my friend's mole has a hair growing on it."

"This hair was very thick and stiff, unlike the hair on other parts of his body, which made him feel very uncomfortable. So one day, he couldn't help but pluck it out with tweezers."

"There was a little bleeding during the process, but the effect was very good. The hair was removed by the root. It felt like pulling an earthworm out of the soil without tearing it in two. My friend felt a strong sense of physical and mental relief."

"However, just two days later, the hair on the mole grew back. The frustration overcame the pain and everything else, and he tried to pluck it out with tweezers again."

"As he kept plucking, he discovered that this time, the part of the hair that was buried inside the body seemed to have grown longer."