The door of the precinct slammed shut, and Elian remained sitting on the steps. Completely drained, he silently stared at the diary, which just half an hour ago had inspired hope, now evoking only a bitter mixture of anger and disappointment. And what now? He did not know. His only hope had collapsed — he was shamefully thrown out the door, as if he were a deranged drunkard. And perhaps Elian was just that?
He ran his finger across the leather cover, which he had not paid attention to before. On it was depicted the silhouette of familiar flowers, alstroemeria? Perhaps so, though it was rather difficult to discern.
"Alstroemeria... Alstroemeria..." — his eyes widened sharply, and his gaze regained hope. Shoving the diary under his coat, he jumped up from the cold steps, his body instantly responding with tight pain. Cursing inwardly, he trudged along the street. He needed to head south, to Elm Street, where Gregory's house was located.
Descending further down the street, Elian turned into a narrow alley, intending to shorten an already not-so-long path. The old cobblestones were covered with puddles left after yesterday's rain, in which floated remnants of both freshly and long-smoked cigarettes.
He stepped inside, and at that very moment a gust of wind struck him. Sharp, whistling, with the smell of wet stone and rusty iron. In the shadow-cloaked space it was noticeably colder than on the sunlit morning street.
Clenching his teeth and wrapping himself tighter in his light shirt, Elian quickened his pace. The decision to change his usual route was, though advantageous, a potentially dangerous gamble. On the one hand — the path would be cut in half, and potential pursuers thrown off track, yet those same pursuers could easily cut him down right here.
Winding through what seemed like endless interlacing narrow passages, forming a labyrinth in which one could easily remain forever. He moved guided by memory, orienting himself by the old laundry sign that had closed some twenty years ago, the peeling façade of an old house whose basement held a tavern resembling a den, and the rusty staircase leading to the attic of yet another house — this path Gregory had shown him when they were still teenagers studying at the same academy.
Finally, after another turn, he found himself before a narrow passage between two houses, where beyond a concrete arch began another street — bright, wide, with smooth pavement and neat houses, as if deliberately created to contrast with the gloomy labyrinth of alleys. This was Elm Street.
He slowed his pace, walking along the half-empty street. Gazing at the facades of houses bathed in the warm rays of the now midday sun, resembling works of art, Elian reached the old park after which the street was named. Many memories were tied to this place: it seemed that not so long ago, he and Gregory aimlessly spent their time here, strolling among the centuries-old trees, shirking academy lessons. It was here, in the snow-white gazebo by the pond, that Elian first met Lilian...
He inhaled heavily, his gaze empty. No longer paying attention to the cherished place, Elian rushed forward, leaving behind both the park and the bittersweet images of the past.
Manors succeeded one another until finally Elian reached the familiar gates, behind which stood a luxurious two-story mansion of red brick entwined with ivy. Before the house bloomed a lush garden, within which, not very convincingly imitating busyness, stood a servant with a broom.
A knock resounded — the young man raised his head toward the gate. Leaning the broom against a bench, he lazily shuffled forward.
— Good day, sir, — he addressed, sliding over Elian with his fish-like empty-foolish gaze, combining a strange mixture of contempt and pity. — Might you leave this place. This is the entrance to a nobleman's estate, and it is not fitting for the likes of you to loiter here. Should you need alms — go to the market or the temple. Should you need shelter, I advise you to seek it in the lower districts, for example at Saint Celestine's asylum, — whether this was mockery or sincere but ignorant advice was hard to say. Saint Celestine's asylum — once a benevolent place, later became an isolator for all unwanted, destitute, and doomed people. In any other situation such a phrase could be taken as an insult, yet now it mattered not in the slightest.
— Call Mister Whitby, tell him I wish to see Mister Templer, — Elian stepped forward, nearly pressing against the gates. — Say that Mister Frey has come on an extremely important matter, — His appearance was nervous, weary. Almost invisible drops of sweat trickled down his temple.
At these words the servant's face changed. How could it be that some drunkard dared demand the presence of the butler? Not to mention the master himself! Such as he should ordinarily revere the attention of a mere servant. And this one not only ignored his goodwill, but even dared to command! The man was about to return for his broom, but froze at the sound of a distant voice.
— William! — it was an aged, yet still stately man. Amid his graying hair, bald patches showed through. His face was adorned with lush gray mustaches that amusingly twitched with every spoken word. — I recall sending you to tidy up the garden, and here you are idling! And now, it seems, you are engaged in a fascinating conversation with some... — his voice faded as he came closer. His face reflected a mixture of surprise and panic, and his bushy mustaches trembled with inaudible muttering. Perhaps curses at himself, or at the dreadful situation.
— M-Mister Frey! Please forgive an old servant for his blunder, my eyesight is failing, I did not recognize you... — he had already reached the gate — What a fool I am...
— Enough, Mister Whitby, I understand, nothing terrible has happened. I take no offense. Better lead me to Gregory.
— Yes, of course, sir, — he said nervously, pulling out a bundle of keys. Shoving the right one into the latch, the butler sharply turned to the servant. — William, why are you standing here? Quickly inform the master that Mister Frey has arrived!
The servant, sweating like cattle before slaughter, nearly skipped off toward the mansion.
The door opened — Elian stepped inside. Mister Whitby walked just behind, lamenting his eyesight, thereby excusing himself. Elian paid little attention to this; he knew the old butler very well — since childhood, when he and Gregory, for the sake of a long-forgotten classmate, had ruined his mother Lady Templer's bed of white roses, for which they were scolded. Glancing at the considerably grayed man, Elian involuntarily thought that he had softened noticeably.
Meanwhile, they nearly reached the entrance to the mansion framed by half-columns. Mister Whitby quickened his pace, and, overtaking Elian, opened the door for him and respectfully stepped aside.
Entering inside, Elian saw a familiar, even somewhat homely scene: a spacious vestibule with parquet flooring covered by a red carpet, a couple of paintings depicting religious subjects, and several ficus plants so beloved by the masters of the mansion. It seemed this place had frozen in a distant, soul-warming time. Elian's gaze slid upward to the helicoidal staircase by the right wall, and on the balcony of the second floor, nearly rushing out, appeared a man.
— Elian! What a surprise, — dressed in a loose white shirt, Gregory leaned against the railing, nearly toppling over it. — Could it be my moralizing speeches had an effect? — he said cheerfully, chuckling slightly.
— Perhaps so... — the morning scene surfaced in memory, — In any case, we need to talk, do you mind?
— But of course! What do you prefer: the garden or the library? — said Gregory, quickly descending the staircase. — Today the weather is simply perfect, neither cold nor hot, and outside the apple trees are in full bloom, — in just a few steps he was before Elian, and without slowing embraced him in a strong, friendly hug. A second passed. Gregory released him, clapped his friend twice on the shoulder, and stepped back.
— Ahem... The library. Yes, let's go to the library. And quickly.
— As you wish. Mister Whitby, be so kind as to bring us tea, — Gregory tossed over his shoulder, already leading Elian to the second floor.
Together they ascended to the second floor, just as the butler had already left the room. Waiting for this moment, Gregory finally decided to ask about the reasons for this unexpected visit: — So... what made you decide to visit me? — he addressed his friend carefully. — Don't take it the wrong way, I truly am glad of your visit... But I very much doubt you were so moved by my moralizing words that you emerged from a two-month binge. And if that were the case, you would have come in... a less extravagant state, — for a moment silence hung. — You're right. I'll tell you once we're in the library, there may be unwanted ears here, — with these words Elian headed into the library.
Gregory's personal library outwardly resembled more a blend of living room, bedroom, and library itself. In the spacious room stood only a couple of bookshelves, which were decorated with intricate compositions of swords of various kinds, reminding of the family's military origins. Just a few meters beyond the window bloomed a cherry tree in full, its sweet fragrance filling the room. Opposite the small fireplace stood a pair of carved sofas, and a dark-wood tea table.
Without asking anything, Elian sat down on one of them.
— If my memory serves, just this morning you reproached me for behaving like the master in your house, — Gregory grumbled, standing at the entrance to the library and watching his friend settle on the sofa. — Unfair, don't you think? — barely audibly smirking, he sat opposite Elian. — And what is this confidential matter that cannot be mentioned in the corridor?
In response, Elian placed the diary on the table. Silence followed, broken only by a bewildered look. Was this the reason to come here so urgently... a book? Don't mistake him, Gregory truly was glad that his friend had finally decided to leave the house, even if with such an unusual pretext for their situation.
— And... what is this? A new novel? Your own manuscript? — they say that one of the ways to pull a person out of the abyss of sorrow is sincere support of his passions, hobbies, or anything else that brings him joy.
— Don't talk nonsense. This is Lilian's diary. I found it while examining her study, — Elian briefly explained. It was hidden in a secret compartment... if one can call it that. Judging by what is written there, what happened back then... was far from suicide.
— You mean to say that she... was murdered? — in response to his friend's slight nod, Gregory noticeably darkened. But the investigation yielded nothing, shouldn't there have been at least some traces? — If that's the case, shouldn't this be handed over to the police?
— I was just there. They threw me out, saying I'd gone mad from grief, — hearing a knock at the door, Elian abruptly fell silent. A moment later Mister Whitby entered the room, carrying tea on a tray.
— As always, you never break tradition, exactly five minutes, — Gregory decided to fill the sudden silence with praise. In response, the old butler's face blossomed into a joyful smile. Finishing his task, he quickly left the room.
— Well then... let's return to the subject, — Gregory said, pouring Elian's cup of tea.
— I... don't know. Judging by the diary, she was being watched and... perhaps that's all I can say, — Elian looked thoughtfully at the diary.
— I understand, it's very personal, but still, to help I need to be aware.
— I mean that this is literally all I can say. Only the last entry is written in Arius, the rest — another language. I have no idea what it says, I can only say I've seen it before.
— Well then... I suppose it's a bad business, — Gregory said, rhythmically tapping his finger on the table. Several minutes passed. — How about turning to Inessa? She's a detective, and surely she can help us, and at the very least we should tell her simply because she was Lilian's friend.
— I suppose you're right. Then, you'll contact her? Meanwhile I'll try to figure out what's written on the other pages, — without even intending to discuss the suggestion, Elian took the diary and quickly stood up.
Not wishing to waste time, he headed for the exit. — Don't you want to stay a little longer? At the very least it would be useful for you to hear the news.
Weighing the pros and cons, Elian decided to linger slightly. It was worth finding out more about recent events, and besides, it wouldn't take much time.