Chapter 16: The Departed Wife

Chapter 16 The Departed Wife

Dis stood behind Karen, watching his grandson.

While everyone else was paralyzed on the floor in sheer terror,

of those present,

only the grandfather and grandson exuded a strange composure.

"Have you discerned anything?"

Karen turned his head, glanced at Dis, and shook his head.

"Nothing at all?"

Karen shook his head once more and said,

"Only disappointment."

"Disappointment?"

"Yes."

Though he had deliberately provoked the man over the phone earlier, Karen had still harbored a faint vestige of anticipation in his heart.

To use words like "anticipation" and "disappointment" to describe the scene before them was admittedly inappropriate; in truth, when Karen had hung up the phone and rushed over with his grandfather, he too had worried that something might have befallen Madame Hughes.

Yet, the human psyche is inherently labyrinthine; one can feel anxiety and worry, one can feel grief and indignation over Old Darcy’s death, and yet simultaneously detach another layer of the self, adopting an alternative perspective to measure and contemplate the "artwork" before them without any contradiction.

And before his grandfather, Karen had no need to conceal himself too deeply.

"Wherein lies the disappointment?"

"It is monotonous, cliché, devoid of any novelty."

"Can even this be counted as such?"

Dis looked once more at the "building-block Old Darcy" ahead.

"That is about the extent of it," Karen shrugged. "When all is said and done, the arrangement in the Crown Ballroom felt more as though the environment had elevated the killer's work. This time, by contrast, reflects his actual caliber."

"Are you truly here to appreciate it?" Dis asked.

"No, there should be something else of interest." Karen's gaze began to forage through the surroundings. "I recall that when I was on the phone with the killer, he was vexed over the final pieces of the puzzle."

"And so?"

"If one looks at this from an investigative standpoint, after hanging up the phone, the killer would likely have tried to force that final piece into place."

"So, you are searching for that?"

"Yes."

"I shall help you look."

"Thank you, Grandfather."

Karen first walked over to Madame Hughes, reaching out to help her to her feet.

Madame Hughes possessed a striking fairness; he had thought her fair upon their first meeting, but at close quarters, one realized she was remarkably pale.

Some fairness is superficial, static, dry, and tedious.

Yet another kind of fairness possesses depth, motion, sensibility, and an allure that makes it hard to put down.

Uncle Mason and Aunt Mary had both warned him to be "cautious" around Madame Hughes; as people of experience, they knew precisely what a woman like her signified.

"Old Darcy..."

Madame Hughes wept, a picture of rain-drenched pear blossoms.

"Madame, you ought to telephone the police now."

"Oh... yes, of course." Madame Hughes was, at her core, a resilient woman; wiping away her tears, she walked toward the telephone.

As for the three individuals still sprawled upon the floor, Karen did not bother to assist them, choosing instead to begin his own search of the cremation room while Dis wandered about, observing.

The cremation room was not particularly sprawling, but as it had to accommodate three incinerators, it could not be overly cramped either.

Karen first noticed the incinerator that was still radiating heat; he leaned in to inspect it but found nothing amiss.

Promptly after, Karen moved before an adjacent incinerator.

"Hmm?"

Slightly bewildered, Karen reached out, pulled the lever beside it to open the door, and exerted his strength to draw the rack outward.

Upon the rack lay a figure, face down.

The individual was clad in the uniform of the Hughes Crematorium.

"Ah!"

Madame Hughes shrieked behind him, causing even Karen to give a sudden start.

"There is... there is another one here!" Madame Hughes was gripped by panic.

"No, it is still the same one." Karen bent down, picked up a pair of tongs, and nudged the hand of the corpse upon the rack.

The hand was nudged out from the cuff.

Immediately following, Karen nudged the head of the corpse, and the head, too, was jostled out from the collar of the garment.

The head that emerged was but a mere half; there was only the back of the skull, with the anterior portion entirely absent.

The hand was precisely the same, consisting of only a half, devoid of bone and reduced to mere skin, bearing a faint resemblance to processed boneless chicken feet.

Turning around, Karen approached the counter where the urns were displayed, using the tongs to flip the foot inside one of the urns over.

Previously, the "foot" had been "standing" on its side.

Only upon flipping it did it become apparent that the foot had been cleaved in two, leaving only a half here.

Standing slightly on his tiptoes, he used the tongs to nudge Old Darcy's head inside the topmost urn; as the head rotated, only half of it remained, the back of the skull hollowed out, as though a watermelon had been subjected to a transverse cut.

Therefore,

upon the incinerator rack lay one half of Old Darcy, while the assembled Old Darcy stacked upon the counter was likewise only a half.

The killer had divided Old Darcy into "two halves."

"There is something here as well." Dis approached, pushing a two-wheeled cart; originally intended for transporting ashes and miscellaneous items, it currently held a hammer, nails, a ball of twine, ropes, and several jars and bottles.

"What is contained in this bottle..." Karen poked at it with the tongs out of curiosity, though the bottle bore no label whatsoever.

"It is super glue," Dis remarked.

"Glue, is it..."

Karen took a few steps backward, silently retreating to the side of the telephone once more.

Dis walked over, standing at Karen's side, and inquired, "Half the body is on the incinerator rack, and the other half is here among the urns. So, what exactly did the killer intend to do?"

Karen pursed his lips and murmured to Dis,

"Old Darcy is burning Old Darcy."

"Is that what this means?"

The murderer relished using irony to manifest his artistic humor; half of old Darcy lay face down upon the shelf, while the remaining half of old Darcy, wielding a small hammer and clad in gloves, stood alongside, prepared to thrust him into the incinerator.

Or perhaps, that half of old Darcy was to be cremated, and then the other half of old Darcy stood ready to shatter his own bones to pack them into an urn.

Choose an angle, and when looking across, things split in two could be perceived as two complete men.

“Like a wax figure,” Dis remarked.

The wax figures in a wax museum would be designed into poses of doing something, such as a farmer tilling the fields, or a soldier charging into battle.

“Yes, Grandfather, your analogy is quite precise; I believe that very sensation is precisely what the murderer wished to present.”

“But, if that was what the murderer wished to manifest, why has it become like this now? Was it because of your phone call, causing him to run out of time?”

“I feel rather that he discovered his own ability was insufficient to accomplish such meticulous work; to separate a corpse and then stitch and fix it together requires not only a massive workload but also a supreme level of ‘tailoring.’

Thus, he could only settle for the next best thing, which turned into the present state of affairs.”

No wonder when he had spoken with the murderer over the phone, the murderer’s emotions had exploded with just a few slight provocations, for at that moment, the murderer was trapped in a decadent state where his creative execution could not keep pace with his conceptual vision.

“However, Grandfather, there is one matter that puzzles me. At the Crown Ballroom, the murderer used the ‘Song of the Soul’ to mock the Berry Cult; by all reason, this time should also touch upon religion.

Criticizing authority, mocking religion, while all others are drunk and I alone am sober—these are the common factors that generally send an artist into a spiritual climax.”

“The one before us actually is,” Dis said. “In the doctrines of the Church of the God of the Abyss, there are records concerning the God of the Abyss; legend has it that he divided himself into two halves;

One half descended eternally into hell;

The other half transformed into crystalline powder and ascended into heaven.

Then,

The him in hell and the him in heaven, using his own self as a medium, forcibly opened a spatial passage; it belonged to heaven yet connected to hell, yet existed independently, termed… the Abyss.

His believers also favored calling him the Master of the Abyss.”

“The Master of the Abyss?” Karen looked at Dis. “How is it that I have never heard of this?”

“The cradle of this church is very remote, and additionally, the sacrifices and doctrines of this church are far too extreme, leading many national governments to ban and forbid its proselytization within their borders.

Let alone in Roga City, even in the entirety of Ruilan, there is no organization of the Abyssal Religion—at least, not on the surface.”

…

The police arrived.

Leading the squad was Captain Duke once again.

Because upon receiving the report, an old detective’s sixth sense told him that this seemed to be a new creation by that murderer.

Throughout the entire afternoon,

The “new work of art” had been practically hammering incessantly against Captain Duke’s head,

Along with the placid expression of that young man surnamed Inmales when he spoke those words.

Had it not been for the chaotic mess of affairs at hand, and had it not been for the Inmales family—especially that old gentleman—possessing connections within Roga City, Captain Duke truly wanted to find a pretext to detain that young man and afford him some thorough “solicitous care.”

Then,

When Captain Duke led his men into the Hughes Crematorium and beheld Karen already standing there, his fists clenched instantly as he shouted in sheer disbelief:

“Damn it, have you people signed a cooperative agreement with the Grim Reaper? You manage to get here so quickly every single time!”

“Hello, Captain Duke,” Dis spoke up.

“Uh, oh?” Captain Duke took the initiative to shake Dis’s hand. “Hello, Father Dis.”

The police commenced their work,

While Karen, having previously conversed directly with the murderer, was requested to give a detailed statement.

Captain Duke remained present throughout;

“…That is all I know.”

“So this time, it has switched from the Berry Cult to the Abyssal Religion?” Captain Duke sucked on his pipe and tapped his forehead. “What worries me now is whether he will continue to kill next.”

Karen replied very calmly: “That is inevitable, and it will be very soon.”

“Very soon?”

“Because this piece of work of his failed.

The murderer is a man who holds himself in high esteem but whose actual level is very mediocre; this sort of person will not stop to reflect upon himself, but will instead impatiently desire to prove himself anew time after time.”

In his previous statement, Karen had omitted the contents of his “mockery” toward the murderer over the phone.

“By the way, Captain, has the identity of the first victim been uncovered?”

Captain Duke shook his head and said:

“There is a slight lead, but we are currently waiting for the police department of the neighboring city to assist in verification; the deceased should not be a local of this city.

Additionally, there is another matter; you mentioned that the murderer and the victim should be very close, as only then would there be a sense of immersive empathy.”

“Yes, so I suggest you might first initiate the investigation from Darcy’s social network.”

Captain Duke narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning his torso forward a bit, looking at Karen as he asked:

“Speaking of it this way, once the identity of the first deceased is uncovered, and the social networks of the two individuals are circled together, finding the point of overlap will allow us to encircle the scope of the murderer?”

“Theoretically speaking, it should be so.”

“Would the murderer be that stupid?” Captain Duke said, somewhat incredulous.

Karen shrugged,

And said:

“He truly is that stupid.”

…

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.”

Karen expressed his gratitude to Mrs. Hughes.

For she had personally driven to escort him and his grandfather back to Mink Street.

“I am very sorry to have brought trouble upon you both.”

“You are too polite,” Dis responded.

Mrs. Hughes drew a deep breath and said, “Old Darcy was an old employee of mine; I never expected him to encounter such a thing. Father Dis, I leave old Darcy’s funeral to you; I shall take full responsibility for it.”

“Very well.”

Mrs. Hughes forced a faint smile and said, “It will just be hard on Mary; I have only one request—I hope that on the day of the funeral, old Darcy can be whole… as long as he looks whole.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you. There is one more matter I hope you might consider.”

“Speak.”

“The crematorium—I wish to sell it. In truth, I was already very tired, and over these years, it was thanks to the old employees by my side supporting me, especially old Darcy; now that he is gone, I alone can no longer continue to operate it.

I hope you might consider acquiring the Hughes Crematorium; as for the price, everything is open to discussion—so long as you propose a price, I shall not refuse.”

This was a testament to her absolute faith in Grandfather’s character.

Furthermore, though Old Darcy had died within the crematorium, what kind of place was a crematorium anyway? Would a facility that incinerated corpses daily care about becoming some haunted house?

"I will speak to Mason."

"Very well. Thank you again, and... to your grandson as well."

Mrs. Hughes bowed first to Dis, then extended her arms to wrap Cullen in an embrace.

Instantly, a profound sense of fullness washed over Cullen, as though he were sinking into a mass of thick cream, yet without the slightest hint of cloy.

It felt like an old farmer lying atop his home barn, his spirit reaping immense, serene satisfaction.

Mrs. Hughes stepped back into her carriage, started the engine, and drove away.

Cullen followed Dis into the first-floor living room. Aunt Winnie was currently sitting on the sofa, her eyes fixed upon the account ledger.

"Father, you are back."

"Mm."

"Where is Uncle? Is Uncle not back yet?" Cullen asked.

Earlier at the entrance, he had not seen the family hearse.

"Mason and the others returned around dusk," Aunt Winnie replied. "They brought back two 'guests' and one family member."

In the Inmeles household, "guest" was the specific code for a corpse, while the paying relatives of the deceased were called guest families.

This meant that Uncle had successfully secured those two orders.

One was the man whose head had been half-shaved off in the booth, and the other was the one who had sustained severe injuries and ultimately succumbed to them.

"Then where is Uncle now?"

"Out shopping, with that guest's wife." As Aunt Winnie spoke, she pointed a finger to her own head, meaning the wife of the deceased whose skull had been split from his shoulders.

Cullen recalled Aunt Mary mentioning this afternoon that when the wife received the notification, she had adamantly insisted her husband was currently on a business trip in Vienne and could not possibly have died in the Hill Street ballroom.

It seemed the wife had finally accepted reality.

No.

Not only had she accepted it, but she had also received a severe psychological shock.

Her husband died by day, and by night she was riding in a hearse for a wild shopping spree.

It sounded somewhat mad... yet Cullen, ironically, could understand it.

Still, out of curiosity, Cullen asked, "How could Aunt Mary agree to this?"

Allowing Uncle to accompany a freshly widowed woman on a nighttime shopping trip?

"Because Mrs. Seymour booked Package B!"

Aunt Mary’s voice drifted down from the staircase. She emerged from the basement, looking thoroughly radiant and full of spirit.

Cullen had looked at the family "menu" before. Package A was reserved for the truly wealthy; they might not encounter a single such order in a year. The coffins used for that package were the Golden Coffin and the Gentle Breeze Coffin that Cullen had examined earlier.

Package B, however, represented the highest-priced tier among the household's actual mainstay business.

It belonged to the class of funerals where normal clients spent their blood-earned fortunes; this also meant the profit margins would be vast.

"It is Package B, Cullen. Let alone letting your uncle accompany her shopping, I would not even mind lending him to her for two nights."

Cullen made a subtle head-twitching gesture toward Aunt Mary.

Aunt Mary followed his gaze, only then noticing Grandfather sitting on the sofa, and instantly clapped a hand over her mouth in fright.

Dis merely shook his head slightly and said, "Old Darcy is dead."

"Who is Old Darcy?" Aunt Mary asked, slightly perplexed, before quickly adding, "Oh, that old stoker from the Hughes Crematorium. Poor Old Darcy, may God receive his soul."

With that, Aunt Mary even made a gesture of prayer, clearly attempting to make amends for the absurdity of her prior remarks.

Dis went straight upstairs.

Cullen spoke up, "Mrs. Hughes wishes to entrust Old Darcy’s funeral to us."

Upon hearing this, Aunt Mary showed none of the excitement of gaining another order; instead, she rolled her eyes. "I dislike doing business with acquaintances the most. Not only is there absolutely no profit margin to speak of, but sometimes we even have to do it at a loss."

Cullen could not help but smile in his heart: these two were true close friends.

After a moment of hesitation, seeing that Grandfather had not directly told Aunt Mary about Mrs. Hughes's intention to sell the crematorium, Cullen likewise refrained from telling his aunt that Old Darcy had already been reduced to numerous pieces.

"Oh, by the way, Cullen, while you and Grandfather were out this afternoon, a gentleman came to pay you a visit. Upon learning you were not home, he left, but he did leave a letter for you, saying you could come to his house for coffee whenever you have time."

Cullen took the letter. The signature read "Piaget"—the psychologist who had brought his wife to the Hughes Crematorium for cremation last time.

The contents of the letter were very simple, essentially stating that he regretted missing Cullen during his visit today, while inviting Cullen to be a guest at his home. He left his phone number along with an address:

No. 45 Rhine Street.

If Mink Street belonged to the second ring of the city, then Rhine Street belonged to the first ring of the downtown center; the municipal government building was located on that very street.

"Alright, Aunt, I understand. I think I would like to go upstairs and take a bath first."

"Mm, go get some rest early."

But just then, the sound of a vehicle came from outside. It was Uncle Mason returning with Mrs. Seymour.

Mrs. Seymour was roughly thirty years old, dressed very plainly.

Meanwhile, Uncle Mason, following behind her, was laden with large and small bundles, having bought quite a few shoes, clothes, and bags.

"Mason, why did you not send Mrs. Seymour home?" Aunt Mary asked.

Now that the shopping was finished, should he not have escorted her back first? It was so late; why had he brought her to their house instead?

The handling of the remains and the arrangement of the funeral services would take place a few days later, not tomorrow morning. After all, instances like Mr. Moissant's children, who were in a desperate rush to dispose of their father, were a minority among minorities.

The vast majority of funerals would leave ample time to send out obituary invitations and allow friends and relatives to prepare their travel. At the same time, the corpse also required embalming first.

Mrs. Seymour beat him to the answer: "I heard from Mason that your family also offers psychological counseling services. I require that service right now."

Standing behind Mrs. Seymour, Uncle Mason raised his eyebrows at Cullen, while simultaneously mouthing words to Aunt Mary.

Aunt Mary caught the drift instantly and immediately said, "Yes, yes, of course we do. We will arrange it for you right away."

...

Conducting psychological counseling required a closed, comfortable space.

Yet Cullen did not possess his own studio, and Aunt Mary dared not go upstairs now to request Dis to vacate his office, nor could she possibly ask Mrs. Seymour to go down into the basement.

In the end,

I cannot fulfill this request.

Next,

Mrs. Seymour added:

"This morning, Linda brought over an apple pie, and it was truly delectable. I even saved half of it in the refrigerator for my husband, but alas, he will never get to taste it."