"You must act quickly, they are watching Elian."
A heavy silence settled in the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Elian stood motionless, not taking his eyes off those shocking words written in such a familiar hand. All manner of thoughts crowded his mind, each more impossible than the last.
His heart pounded wildly; with a trembling hand he turned the page, moving to the earlier entries.
An unfamiliar text immediately caught his eye. Another language. Everything except the last page was written in a seemingly familiar tongue — Elian, being a linguist, had definitely seen it before, perhaps even worked with it a little.
He shifted his gaze to the part written in Arius, his native language.
< Today I finally found a lead on Astralin's book. But time is pressing, pressing hard. I fear I will not finish the task. They are closing in. Each day I see them more often — dozens of people watching my every move. With each passing day staying in touch becomes more difficult.
However, it is comforting that they are only watching me. That means they are not yet sure, and therefore do not act. Losing them from my tail is no longer possible — it's too late. All that remains is to divert their attention onto someone else. Stay in their field of view, but convince them of my insignificance.
I must visit Inessa and demonstratively give her a meaningless message. In any case they cannot harm her. Simply removing the detective won't work — too much attention.>>
Elian froze where he stood, staring at the final line. Cold sweat stood out on his skin. There was not a single sane explanation for what he had just read.
They were watching her? Was she involved in something? But that was simply impossible. They had lived together for many years — how could he have missed anything like that?
Elian slowly closed the diary. Emotions raged within him: anger, hurt, bitterness... disappointment. Disappointment in himself. He had been useless, living in his rosy little world, noticing nothing of what was happening.
They were watching her... which meant all the investigation and his conclusions were pointless. It wasn't suicide — it was murder. Which meant it wasn't over yet. If he turned to the police — they would reopen the case!
With a quick motion Elian shoved the diary into his waistband. His heart racing, he dashed out of the room. He grabbed several banknotes lying on the dusty table at random and left the flat.
The bright light blinded the mindlessly fleeing Elian. A cool wind that struck his face brought him to his senses. He stopped.
< He looked around. An elderly woman by the bakery. A man in a top hat on the corner. A teenager leaning against a lamppost… Any one of them could be one of them.
Trying not to attract attention, he walked along the cobbled sidewalk. Elegant street lamps stood along the road, separated by a low curb. The familiar scent of dampness hit his nose, mixed with the smell of smog drifting from factories that had long since started working. Suddenly the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels sounded behind him.
An empty fiacre approached from behind. Elian waved to the coachman in an attempt to stop the carriage.
The nearest police station was eight blocks from Elian's home. If the surveillance was still ongoing, taking a carriage would be the best way to shake them off.
The coachman stopped the carriage right in front of Elian.
— Good morning to you, sir, — the man smiled, touching the peak of his cap as a sign of respect. — Where to?
— Saint James Street square, — came the brief reply as Elian climbed into the fiacre.
It was on that street that the station responsible for Lillian's incident was located. After visiting the station Elian planned to go to Gregory's, whose house stood only two streets south of Saint James Street.
Elian looked at the notes clenched in his hand: three shillings and six linns. Those crumpled three notes were almost all he had left. His financial situation left much to be desired.
With a heavy heart he handed three shillings to the coachman. The ride to Gregory's house took about fifteen minutes and cost roughly one shilling.
The man pulled the reins and the carriage set off. Uniform three- and four-story houses followed one another. They passed out to the great river called Aina, which divided the city in two.
Fifteen minutes later they emerged onto a small square. In the center stood an elegant fountain topped by a statue of an angelic man whose head was hidden by a hood.
His gaze shifted to the base of the fountain, where he came upon a gathering of people he had at first mistaken for another stall, the sorts commonly found in squares like this. However…
— They are killing us! They profit from our lives! From the lives of our children!
A man shouted, addressing the assembled crowd. Several people stood near him holding placards: "Safety for workers!", "Stop dying at the machines!"
A few constables were already hurrying toward the gathering. Seeing them, the previously shouting group panicked and scattered into the nearest alleys.
Watching the whole scene from the fiacre, Elian took the two shillings owed him and left the carriage. Crossing the square and passing under a majestic arch, he left the plaza and, after walking another minute down the street, stopped in front of the police station.
A large three-story red-brick building with narrow barred windows, high stone steps, and a massive door blended naturally into the row of neighboring houses. Above the entrance hung a sign: "Police Department."
Elian stopped right in front of the entrance. The place evoked painful memories from two months earlier — how they had forcibly brought him into the station, trembling with terror and crushed by grief.
With each step his legs weakened further. Grasping the handle he paused. Inside raged a vile mixture of fear and hope. What if they don't reopen the case? Two months had already passed… No. That couldn't be. He had to pull himself together — not make a fool of himself.
Taking a deep breath Elian opened the door. The station's vestibule greeted him with heavy, stale silence and the smell of tobacco smoke. Behind a long counter sat the duty officer — a pale, sleepy man with a large mustache who slowly flipped through a logbook while smoking a cigarette. Loud voices came from the right-hand doorway. In the corner a clerk scratched with a quill, entering another report.
Carefully stepping forward Elian stopped at the counter. The man paid no attention. Looking at the duty officer for half a second longer, he barely coughed into his fist to attract attention.
The mustached man finally set the logbook down and turned to Elian. His reaction was not mocking; on the contrary — he examined the newcomer closely, as if assessing him.
— Good day… sir, — he said reluctantly. A slight disdain for Elian was audible in his voice — wrong though it was, it had some basis. For he looked as if he had just come out of a tavern. — May I help you with something?
— Yes, sir, you see, — Elian began carefully. — I'm here about the suicide on Ashford Street, — his tone was calm, though a real storm raged in his soul.
A shadow of skepticism passed over the duty officer's face. What fool would come here two months after the case was closed? And in such a state.
— And what exactly interests you about this case? I admit — the case is unusual, but not that extraordinary, — the man wiped the glasses lying on the desk. — Ah yes, excuse my rudeness — how shall I address you?
— Elian. Elian Frey, — Elian answered, watching the duty officer put on his glasses.
A pause. The man raised his eyes, this time peering at Elian a little more closely.
— I take it… you were… were the deceased's husband?
— Yes, that's correct, — Elian answered quickly, trying not to react to the duty officer's wording. Had it been deliberate or merely a slip of the tongue?
— Returning to the previous topic: what exactly prompted you to come here? — the man asked, closing the logbook. He was all attention.
— You see… at the time the case was closed as a suicide… — Elian hesitated for a second. With each word his confidence in his conclusions dwindled. Had he misread something? What if Lillian had indeed been ill and the notes about being watched were only her private entries? A clatter sounded — the clerk at the side had knocked over an empty glass. Elian snapped back from the chain of oppressive thoughts. — I have grounds to believe it was murder.
A funeral silence hung in the room. Even the clerk stopped his work, nervously awaiting what would come next.
— And what are these grounds? — the duty officer grew noticeably more serious. His tone chilled and he studied Elian's face intently.
— I… I found my wife's diary. In it she wrote that she was being watched.
— May I ask, do you have it with you? — the man asked, rising from his seat.
— Yes, sir.
— Very well… Wait here, I will report this to the inspector, — with that he disappeared into the doorway.
Elian took a seat on a small bench, but did not have to wait long; after about five minutes the man returned.
— Please, the inspector is expecting you, — he motioned for Elian to follow him.
Climbing to the second floor, the duty officer stopped and indicated the door ahead.
— He asked that you come in alone, — he explained.
Not arguing, Elian walked forward. As soon as he opened the door a spacious office unfolded before him. In the center stood a desk piled with papers, several drawers ajar with papers visible inside. Nothing unusual except for a large painting hung between the open windows. It depicted a dead lion, felled by a man standing in a victorious pose. The sight sent a chill down Elian's spine.
The very man now sat behind the desk. He wore a dark-blue frock coat and white gloves covered his hands. Thick mustaches grew on his round face, and a faint interest showed in his keen eyes — perhaps at the guest's appearance, perhaps at the situation as a whole.
— Elian Frey, correct? You may sit down, — he indicated the chair opposite. His tone was authoritative, demanding absolute obedience.
As soon as Elian sat, he continued:
— You may call me Alfred Hartwell. Tom has already told me the reason for your visit… First, allow me to express my condolences to you, Mr. Frey, — Mr. Hartwell said, twirling a fountain pen in his hands. — Even an enemy wouldn't wish this on them, right? Losing someone so close is an incredible blow. Some even go mad… — setting the pen aside, he leaned in closer.
Elian nodded reluctantly. His early tremor turned into nervousness. What was he getting at? Could it be that he…
— Show me this diary of yours, — he tapped his finger on the desk in expectation. And it did not take long.
Elian hurriedly produced the notebook and placed it on the desk. Mr. Hartwell inspected it without enthusiasm. Quickly flipping through the first pages, he reached the entries marked by the bookmark.
A heavy silence descended. Cold sweat broke out on Elian's skin; a bad premonition raged inside him. Why hadn't he said anything yet? A minute passed.
Mr. Hartwell slowly looked up at Elian and snapped the book shut.
— And what are you trying to tell us? — he asked monotonously after a pause.
— What do you mean? — Elian was stunned.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose he let out a long exhale. After straightening he said:
— You came to the police station months after the case was closed with some book supposedly claiming your wife was being watched. Yet all the other pages are written in a foreign language, — he pushed the book toward Elian. — I'll say just one thing — please, do not waste our time.
— What?! — Elian sprang up. — It literally says she was being watched! — no longer fearing anything, Elian stepped up to the desk. — Aren't you at least obliged to take this into account?! Reopen the case?!
— Keep your distance, — Mr. Hartwell ordered, looking Elian in the eyes without changing his expression.
— But you must—
— Tom! — the inspector interrupted Elian, calling for the duty officer.
The door opened almost immediately and the familiar mustached man entered the office. He stood at attention, awaiting orders.
— This man's mind has been clouded by grief. Escort him out of the station.
Without asking questions the duty officer grabbed the resisting Elian by the arm and attempted to drag him from the office.
— But you can't—! — Elian tried to pull his arm back. The attempt failed; they overpowered him, pinning him to the floor.
— And return this nonsense to him, — Mr. Hartwell handed the diary to another officer who had approached.