Second part of the short story gypsy mystery. heart
The intervals between my time awake and unconscious throughout the apparent night contained monotonous darkness broken only by the varying levels of the men's--and some women's--snores and the odd positions I'd found myself shifted to as the others jostled us. Pesha remained quiet and steady as the pitch background but for the occasional mumblings and the degrees of his grip.
I was finally aroused by a savage tearing of my retinas by the sudden influx of sunlight as a door was thrown wide. More than a few curses were uttered--mine included--as we were herded up a flight of stairs hidden once by the gloom to a sumptuous foyer decorated with a scant rug, a large gray stone fireplace, and an odd looking couch with horribly patterned upholstery that was so far out of reach of the over-sized hearth as to look both uncomfortable and awkwardly harsh in its out-of-place stance.
A man was pacing between the town's police force on the couch's left and the hearth, alternating between sobs, being dogged by the constibalary's questions, and rather shrill, naisly demands of, "Who are all these people!"
Eventually, after throwing accusations our way the story was finally leaked out to us by a younger officer and what I caught from the man between his sobs and shouts:
The man was none other than the old place's now sole owner. He was by name Spencer Lancaster. His face was scruffy and held many wear lines around his eyes from gazing into sea-reflected light. His parents had entrusted their home to their children, Spencer and his sister, a Mrs. Penelope Lancaster-Smythe. The woman was the opposite attitude of her sibling, a newly wed and socialite extraordinare.
Unfortunately, the terrifying things our band had heard that batch of hours ago were her death throws. Spencer had discovered Penelope on their parent's room's floor, dead as the two shown in the portrait above her head. Not a bone broken, no single wound in sight.
"You found nothing?" asked Spencer for what I supposed to be the eighth time.
"We discovered a few articles, yes," replied the chief of police. "There was soot on your sister's fingers, but no evidence of a fire. Also, a bicycle clip, and you say you both had no bicyles."
"Correct. I have no need for such a contraption on my vessel, I can assure you, sir. Neither would Penelope."
"And you came here to procure heirlooms?"
"Yes. Our parents left us some more in the house, yet with so many floors we'd not discovered their whereabouts."
"Valuable?"
"Only sentimentally. What of the note?"
"We can't make heads or tails of it, Mr. Lancaster. If there's no more, we'll escort these...people out."
"You're thinking about home, aren't you?" Pesha's voice sent a thrill up my spine as he spoke behind me. I nodded silently. "How did I know?" Another ascenting motion. "You stood near the gadjay"--here his accent broke through thickly in a look that was somewhat to spit--"listening to that story. You looked at the floor, and sort of closed into yourself.
"We went outside and you noticed the dew on the grass." My friend drew my eyes upward with his pointing finger. "Finally, you gazed at that shadow of the moon, so I knew." He smiled. It was almost painful to watch. It was an all too rare, nearly singularly forced movement. It grew.
"Now, is it right to suppose that man will want these returned?" Pesha removed a crumpled note and a small pouch from his coat. I pressed my palms to my eyes and rubbed.
"You stole them?"
"Of course, how else?" He chuckled.
"Why? You weren't interested in the--"
Pesha pressed a long finger to my lips. "Shh. You'll miss seeing me interested."
We returned to the mansion a few hours after, groping through the shadows and slinking along the stones.
"Won't that man still be here?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"He smelt as if he bathed in the sea, tibya. Didn't you notice?"
"Oh...What are you looking at?" Pesha had slowed, his currant crimson eyes tracking some movement.
"...No one. No one important, yet."
I glanced to the shadow he'd trained. A man. Darker skinned, hair wind touseled, clothing rumpled, he had scars on his cheek and dirt up to the rolled bleached white sleeves on his elbows.
Drawing my eyes away, we continued upward into the building. After traversing a vast amount of cases that would keep a man thin and fit for life, we edged into a room surprisingly warm due to its broad double-door style windows.
The room, much like the foyer, held a scant rug only slightly larger than its previously seen cousin and a hearth that lay cold as the officers described. Above and a fraction off center of the mantle was a large portrait done in drab color. It seemed such as the color had dimmed from its original brightness.
A man with whitening gray thin hair and moustache stood in a graying once-black suit. He looked like the Lancaster man. Seated to his left was a darker skinned woman with long, waving hair and almond shaped dark eyes in a poofed dress that was now a pink-white which may have been red, or not.
My friend paced the width of the room, holding the note in his hands and swapping looks at it for ones for the painting. I moved to his side and leaned over his shoulder to peer at the scrap of paper. The only words I could make out were "more weight." I gave him a questioning stare, though I feared it appeared idiotically blank.
Pesha held my eyes a moment. "It's a sort of riddle," he explained. " 'In sight, but never seen. Large, but can hold more weight.' " Taking my arm, he led me to the window. There he turned the paper over and upside down and held it near the glass. HIs message sat revealed there.
"How did you...?" I stopped, having taken a backstep.
"Simple, tibya." He stooped, teasing whatever I'd tread upon into his skillful hands. A bright bangle studded with red jewels. "Come!" I had to jog as Pesha set out with long strides--a man with new vigor and the same madman's gleam on his features.
"You! You there!" I backpeddled to a halt beside Pesha, who faced the stranger from the yard. "What do you call yourself?"
"Ferka." The man's name glided in a strong, rolling smoothness from his tongue. Like honey poured over melting butter. Pesha revealed the bracelet with deliberate flourish.
"Yours," he paused, raising a brow elegantly, "I believe?" With a deft movement, the band was flicked out of his fingers. Ferka made a quick nod and was gone. I looked at the void space and back. He was waving a long strand of hair slowly before me. "Simple, tibya. I am a good observer."
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