Chronicles of Mystery

The true jewel

Following Lucy's astonishing announcement, a heavy silence fell. A few discrete and awkward murmurs were exchanged. Lucy beamed. It was her moment of glory. She had the impression of being at the key passage of the novel, where all the intrigues finally unraveled. She could already tell how everything was going to end. First, Henry was going to deny, attempt to refute the statements that accused him, panic would rise within him as he saw himself trapped, unmasked. He would begin to realize that there was no way out. Then he would make mistakes that would clearly show he was the culprit. Frustrated, in rage, he would listen, nervously, to the deduction method of the three investigators and then launch into a desperate escape attempt which would only lead to his arrest. It would be a brilliant victory for them, everyone would cheer for them. Perhaps they would even have a buffet organized in their honor while people would boast their talent.

While this whole plan, apparently without a hitch, was unfolding in Lucy's mind, Henry stared back with a feeling of unease spreading on his face.

"What is your evidence?" He finally asked, looking quite annoyed.

"First of all, the interviews. During the interrogations, we noticed that you reacted differently to the mention of the theft of the jewelry. A first clue that piqued our curiosity." Alistair explained.

Henry sighed and shrugged indifferently. Lucy frowned, annoyed. Things shouldn't be going this way. Unless Henry was truly innocent. Yet she was so sure she had read something related to the crime in her mind. Already managing to cross all the barriers that his mind contained had been quite difficult. She didn't understand why his mind was constantly on guard, as if he was afraid of being attacked by an unknown threat. Was she wrong? Were they on the wrong track? Doubt began to seep insidiously into her, like a gloomy day through a dusty skylight. It now seemed certain to her that she had made a mistake. Everyone was going to see it. The Delaways were going to find her incompetent and incapable, a funny hillbilly straight from her seedy neighborhood who already saw herself as a renowned detective. They were all going to find her ridiculous. Make fun of her, maybe get angry or chase her away. This could never have happened to her model, it was only to her that it always happened. And Alistair, Alistair who had trusted her, who had blindly believed in her declarations, in this mysterious power about which she herself was uncertain. Alistair was going to be so disappointed. How would he look at her? What would she see in his eyes? Would they be cold and distant, rejecting her, who was so useless? Would he look at her with his icy gaze that he sometimes wore, piercing like a sword, while she looked into his eyes that seemed centuries old with the reflection that the window gave him, on a night when the glass was covered in frost. A look so distant that it no longer seemed to belong to a human. In his gray pupils where the storm was brewing, dark scenes were hidden that Lucy, without being able to help herself, had glimpsed, not daring to venture further into her mind. She could never have brought herself to violate his privacy in this way and she had never read his thoughts. Never.

She knew all too well the pain of feeling like our own thoughts no longer belong to us. That the fruits of the spirit are picked first by others and that someone scrupulously searches every inch of this vast plain which should only be reserved for its owner. The feeling of another presence in one's head fiddles with one's brain and destroys emerging ideas, keeping the mind in a sort of lethargy. For so long it had seemed to her that her veins were not full of blood but rather of water of Lethe. The cottony mists of this vague period still troubled her memory and she never quite remembered what had happened. She was aware of her past, like a lesson learned by heart, and rehashed endlessly until it became more or less a part of her. She could have said a lot of things about herself if she had been asked, but she always refrained because she had this strange fear, this disturbing emotion that pursued her, every time she opened her mouth. She was afraid she would only tell lies. Without even having the will to lie, it seemed to her very keenly that everything she said was not entirely the truth. Or, at least, not hers. Rather the one that had been imposed on her like heavy chains. When and how? She didn't know. This burden seemed to have always accompanied her, so much so that she could not remember having lived without it and did not know how to get rid of this stupefying influence. Always. It was a very big word. She didn't know the meaning of it. What was this always? How long had it been going on? What did it mean to her?