Chronicles of Mystery

The one who knows

The next morning, at ten o'clock sharp, the three accomplices were gathered in front of an old decrepit house. It was wedged tightly between two other dwellings of the same size which seemed to want to smother it and crush it with their severe mass, compressing it like two Cerberus would do, or even two old maids having the guard of a damsel whom they seeked to preserve for marriage. The district was hardly very welcoming, without being repulsive either, a rather hideous and bare in-between, displaying a chain of leprous houses which had sprouted, their faces still white and pale, awaiting a sumptuous make-up which had never come. On the roof, several tiles were missing. The others were dirty and blackened, forming a mosaic of brown and green, the same color as the hardened skin of an undulating snake. They had swapped their slate color for a dubious brown. The paint on the facade was peeling, revealing behind a white that seemed cream now, large red bricks. The windows of the house, although one could see that they were old and had passed through the ages, nevertheless remained clean, like strange pieces of lakes that had been cut out to reflect the sky. Some of them, however, were cracked, even broken and patched with pieces of fabric that the wind shook mercilessly. The small garden at the front of the house was not maintained and looked more like a small jungle than the front of a house. The groves no longer had the slightest flower, reduced to showing with shame and modesty their terrible nudity and bending over themselves their network of intertwined branches. The trees were thin and bent, stunted. The grass had regained its rights and grew without the slightest limit, in long barbaric blades which seemed like a tawny fleece moving under the murmurs of the wind. The front steps were covered with dead leaves that crunched underfoot, like a red mane that had been left there.

Alistair signaled their presence by knocking on the door with the door knocker, a golden lion that had seen better days and yet still bared its gleaming fangs at visitors, trying in the last vestiges of its ardor to retain some of the poise that had been his. Alistair gave several blows which made the doors creak dangerously. He grimaced. With every knock on the door, it was as if the lion let out a low roar from its hoarse throat. Several moments passed without any response. Then, heavy footsteps were heard inside. Someone was running down a staircase. The noise continued as the person provoked complaints from the wooden floor. A sudden stop. The lock began to click as the stranger worked to unlock it. From the series of complex sounds that reverberated, it almost sounded like the person on the other side was struggling in an all-out battle with the system of locksmith and was not winning.

The door swung open, revealing a dressed old dowager. She wore a mauve woolen shawl with fringed edges that looked like it had been handmade. She had on a faded, pearl white blouse with ivory buttons and frills around it. A cream scarf was tied around her neck. A simple black skirt, very long, came down to her feet. Over her strewn silver hair was tied a black lace kerchief.

The woman was thin like a dry smile. Her face was covered with hollows and bumps, traces left by the treacherous years that had slipped by without being seen, each taking a subtle ransom on the features of the face. Her skin hung over her bones, tired to hold it after all this time. Her eyes were sunken in the middle of this disbanding of flesh and one could barely see them. They were covered by a gray veil that hid her gaze. But her hands, although wrinkled, stained with old age, furrowed with veins, retained the softness and delicacy of their youth. The woman gave off a faint scent of violet, a perfume that seemed to recall distant escapades in the moonlight, under loving eyes. She kept the vigorous silhouette of her youth and the tenacity of her twenty years.

She looked suspicious, as if she was wary of those who might appear in the street. She seemed to fear an attack, an invasion, and watched for the slightest suspicious move, leaning her turtle-like neck forward, to better make out what was outside. She was mumbling lightly, grumbling in inaudible sounds.