Chronicles of Mystery

Of tea, sweets and secrets

Lucy, Alistair and Maudehad finally ended their painful interrogations. These had taken them most of the day. At the insistence of the Delaway family, they had agreed to stay for the whole evening, but each of them was exhausted and would have much preferred to slip away as quickly as possible. These discussions with the various members of the family had been nothing but a succession of chatter without the least sense to it. None of them knew anything about the jewelry, but they all started chatting about their lives, their interests, and they couldn't be stopped. Peter had talked so much that he had to recite the equivalent of a poetry collection. He rambled endlessly about the art of poetry and every five minutes, when he was reminded of the subject of the discussion, he would suddenly turn deaf. The father, Henry, had spent half the time with his head between his knees, lamenting on the difficulties of life and pouring out his hard family life. At the end of this ordeal, Lucy had started to wonder if depression was contagious because she was afraid of being affected.

Juliet's interrogation had been the most conclusive. If it hadn't given any answer, it had been the fastest.

The three therefore rested in the living room where they had questioned all the inhabitants of the house. Lucy was slumped on the sofa and seemed unable to move, her head tilted back as she stared at the ceiling. Maude was covering her ears to avoid hearing any other poems and Alistair was massaging his temples, now endowed with a complexion to make a vampire pale.

 - So ? What have you managed to hear with your telepathy? he asked the girl, hoping to be done with this family as soon as possible.

She straightened up a little and gave him a surprised look.

 - I was supposed to use it?

Alistair couldn't help letting out a desperate sigh and leaning back against the back of his chair, his head in his hands.

 - I had thought about it but just hearing them talk annoyed me so much that I preferred not to hear their thoughts too.

 - You really are the worst detective I know.

 - I'm also the only one you know.

Alistair gave her a look that told her very clearly that if his eyes had been knives, she would have been dead a long time ago. The storm in his eyes seemed more gloomy and dull than usual, perhaps a little more menacing, foreshadowing the biting cold of an icy storm.

The three detectives were unaware of what the goofy family was up to but all seemed excited to welcome them tonight. They could only hope it wouldn't be something too extravagant.

When the clock on the wall struck six o'clock and a little bird came out of the wooden cabin that was its home to screech with the same power as a hunting horn for detectives already having to endure an evil of head, Jeanne poked her head through the door to warn them that the event of the evening was about to begin. She took the opportunity to survey the entire room, a suspicious look telling the guests that they had better not have soiled the place during her absence.

All the inhabitants of the house returned after the servant, bringing in addition a woman so old that she could hardly move. Only her eyes were alive, and if you hadn't seen her chest heaving through all the blankets that formed a colorful mound on her rickety body, you would have thought she was dead. Her face was just a mass of folds and wrinkles where two eyes, a nose and a mouth were lost. Her nose, over the years, seemed to never stop growing, becoming a sharp hook dominating her cracked mouth. Her skin looked like a ball of clay, browned and kneaded too long that had been left to dry in the sun and had cracked too much. Her hair was white and sparse, a little yellow at the ends and brittle, showing her skull dotted with age spots. Her body looked like a skeleton on which the skin still hung. Next to her, Martha looked like a strong, firm young woman.