The interrogation of Staven lasted only ten minutes, the shortest that Jorgen had ever conducted, as he didn't expect to gain much. When he mentioned Bower's death, Staven raised an eyebrow slightly and then claimed he had just heard about it.
"How did he die? Was he stabbed or something else? Please, tell me," he asked hurriedly, his speech rapid and stumbling. His trembling jaw seemed ready to shatter the words he had just uttered, and his hands bounced on his knees, causing the metal shackles to produce a jingling sound.
"He drowned," Jorgen replied.
"Oh," Staven lowered his head, clearly disappointed with this answer. He hadn't even considered that a blacksmith could drown in his own backyard. "He was a vile, despicable man," he continued, "I truly wish he had met his end drowning in his own filth."
Noticing Jorgen's silence as he stared at him, Staven added, "I don't mean anything specific by that, Lord Jorgen. You understand that I may have had some minor disagreements with him... Can I honestly say that I had no ill feelings towards him? Probably not. But as an individual, I have every right to indulge in some rhetorical exaggeration and embellishment when expressing these negative emotions..."
"Shut up," Jorgen snapped, closing his notebook and rising from his seat.
"Can you release me? I vouch for the Mistrmantle family, and I have nothing to do with those tasteless threatening letters or Bower's death. I have always been a law-abiding and upstanding citizen of this town."
"I cannot. It's quiet here, and you can take all the time you need to decide between 'magnificent' and 'solemn'."
Jorgen didn't believe that Staven had the heart to cut up his own poetry collection to create the threatening letters, let alone suspect him of killing Bower. Judging purely from malice, he was no more suspicious than hundreds of other townsfolk. Nevertheless, detaining him temporarily was necessary. On one hand, it would help expedite clearing him of suspicion, and on the other, it would allow Jorgen to observe various reactions. If the killer had any response to this development, it would be ideal.
With Joseph's assistance, the registration of outsiders was approximately forty percent complete, with no unusual findings thus far. Jorgen's job was to select individuals from Joseph's list who warranted suspicion and then further investigate a few, while others required discreet surveillance. Inquiring about their personal histories was nearly pointless because there was no way to determine if they were lying, making it more practical to monitor their future actions.
Due to the limited number of night watchmen and their inexperience in handling homicide cases, this method of investigation placed a significant burden on them and was highly inefficient. Nevertheless, Jorgen saw no better alternative. His mission in this place was originally "guard duty," and it was impractical and time-prohibitive to requisition additional personnel from the MI7 for the delicate position of Night Watchman.
However, he had a premonition that the involvement in Bower's case extended beyond one or two killers. Perhaps there were more people involved, and perhaps more events were yet to unfold. The nature of Bower's ritualistic death suggested that it was unlikely to be the act of a single individual acting independently. In independent murder cases, the perpetrator would go to great lengths to conceal everything, including the body itself; they feared witnesses and wanted everyone to forget the murder as quickly as possible. The murderer of Bower was quite the opposite. They were saying, "I am here, I can do this, and I can do it again, even better." In this context, extensive monitoring of outsiders had its advantages.
Under the influence of these events, the date of Dalia's investiture ceremony for the night watchmen was postponed twice. However, she couldn't stay indefinitely as the situation stagnated. After discussions with the mayor, Joseph, and Dalia herself, Jorgen decided to change the location of the planned large-scale ceremony from the town square to the town hall. Only forty night watchmen representatives would be selected for Dalia to personally confer badges upon, while Joseph would be responsible for distributing the rest.
The day before the ceremony, Jorgen and Dalia were invited to the Everlock residence for a meeting with Lady Morticia. In principle, it was a courtesy meeting to inform the widow of the founder of the night watch of the upcoming ceremony, but after all these events and getting acJorgented with Elro and Joseph, Jorgen was quite interested in what kind of person Morticia was.
The day could be described as a "clear day" for Darkshire Town. The heavy purple mist that perpetually hung in the air seemed to have been partially blown away by the wind. Sunlight filtered through the mist, slipping through the intersections of leaves and branches, the gaps in the roofs' tiles, and the cracks in the dry earth. Led by Joseph, Jorgen and Dalia arrived at the second floor of the mansion.
In recent days, there had been a lingering tension between Dalia and Jorgen, as if they were speaking not to each other but to their own reflections in a mirror. They discussed the arrangements for the ceremony and the case but exchanged no personal information. For safety reasons, Jorgen had to restrict her movements; if she wanted to leave the inn, she needed his personal consent. When he announced these arrangements to Dalia in person, she didn't object, only saying, "It's your job," and then fell silent.
—"It's your job."
Jorgen knew Dalia was being sarcastic. But it was harmless sarcasm, like claiming to break through solid ice with a bucket of cold water. Though she was angry with him, the rift between them had not become an irreparable estrangement.
Jorgen preferred not to dwell on these matters. He would simply do what he had to do. In any case, today Dalia was finally allowed to leave the small guest room at the Blood Crow Inn and visit Lady Morticia, someone she had long been curious about. For her, it was something that could potentially change her mood, and Jorgen could see the faint spark of anticipation in her eyes, like a fish leaping out of the water, leaving a glint of sunlight on its silver scales.
Joseph led the way in front of both of them. As they ascended the stairs to the second floor, they could hear the sound of a piano.
"Is Lady Morticia playing?" Dalia asked.
"Yes," Joseph replied. "She plays at least two hours every day—not just as a hobby. Because she can't go out often, her doctor has said that playing an instrument is beneficial to her health."
"Are we not disturbing her?"
"Of course not. I informed her in advance, and she's looking forward to meeting both of you."
The melodious music echoed through the corridor, like a little girl wearing rain boots, dancing a carefree and joyful dance on a refreshing street after a heavy rain. Walking towards Morticia's room, Jorgen had the illusion that the music was guiding them. Dalia, who had been walking alongside him, quickened her pace slightly.
They arrived at the door of the room. Almost as soon as Jorgen and the others caught sight of Morticia's back, the piano's gentle melody came to a soft halt.
Dim light filtered in through the tall windows, casting a warm hue on the piano's dark wood and gently tapping on the keys. Morticia stood up, her fingers leaving the keys, closing the piano lid to seal away the wandering rays of light. She turned around and said, "It seems the people I've been waiting for have arrived. Is it Lady Dalia and Lord Jorgen?"
Her eyes were closed. Like a sleeper in the early morning, her eyelids rested naturally and appropriately on her lower lids, not yet deciding whether to open to greet the new day.
It was only then that Jorgen remembered she couldn't see. He didn't know much about music, but the piano's melody had made him completely forget this fact.
Surprisingly, aside from this, Morticia appeared younger than he had imagined. Although he had learned a little from the innkeeper, the woman before him was clearly younger than Elro, perhaps two or three years younger than Dalia.
"Yes, I've brought them," Joseph said. He walked to Morticia's side, held her hand, and led her towards the two visitors.
One of the key reasons Jorgen and Dalia wanted to meet this woman was the mystery surrounding her as the widow of Gondore. Now that they were face to face with her, Dalia suddenly felt unprepared.
Morticia greeted both Dalia and Jorgen in turn, as if she could clearly see their positions.
She must have judged our arrival by our footsteps. But how did she distinguish between Dalia and me? Jorgen wondered about these things but noticed Dalia urging him to return the greeting with a look. He decided not to pursue these trivial and uninteresting questions further. It was a pointless and perhaps impolite inquiry because he couldn't possibly experience the world of a blind person.
They each took a seat on either side of the central tea table in the room. Another unexpected surprise for Jorgen was that there were no maids in the room despite it being occupied by a blind woman. When they entered, only Morticia was present, playing the piano. Even now, as they were seated and ready to begin their conversation, there was still no sign of a maid. A complete set of tea utensils was on the table, and Morticia had personally brewed the tea. Although her movements were not as direct as those of a sighted person, as she touched the edges of the tea saucers and the tops of the cups to confirm their positions, not a single drop of water splashed out when she poured hot water into the cups, and the water level in each cup remained consistent.
Everything before him seemed like a serene ritual, and as Jorgen lifted the saucer, he felt as if there was an added weight to it. Not a heavy, burdensome weight, but one that invited voluntary acceptance and appreciation.
"Morticia, it's time for your medication," Joseph said.
"Thank you," she replied.
Jorgen recalled that during the first evening's dinner, Joseph had referred to her as "Mother" with a very muffled enunciation. Now he understood why: it was challenging to address a stepmother who was close in age using traditional terms. In that particular context, Joseph had to use that term, but now that Jorgen and Dalia had met Morticia in person, there was no need to continue with such a form of address.
Joseph went to a nearby cabinet, took out two small paper packets, emptied the powder from each into a cup, mixed it with hot water, and placed them within Morticia's reach. She picked up the cup, took a sip, furrowed her brow, but quickly swallowed it down.
The scent of the powder in both paper packets was the same. This was something she couldn't do on her own.