Case File VI: The Hanged Man (3)

Morning crept in, bringing a slight reprieve from the chilling darkness of the gallery, but not from the hanging weight of the mystery. Rose and I stood before Commissioner Richard, reporting what we had found. Richard seemed skeptical about the "third party" and "Lupin's diversion," but the military boot tracks couldn't be ignored.

"Alright," Richard said, sighing. "We'll expand the search area around the gallery. If there are other footprints, we'll find them."

We knew this wasn't enough. The mastermind behind Weston Emmanuel's murder was far slipperier than Richard imagined. Lupin was just a distraction, and those footprints might just be breadcrumbs. We had to delve deeper into Weston Emmanuel's past.

"We need to find out about that ancient painting," Rose said as we left the gallery. "Why did Weston keep it secret? And why did it disappear?"

We started at Weston Emmanuel's home in the affluent Pinewood Hills area. A large house with colonial architecture, yet it felt cold and empty. There were no signs of domestic warmth, just silent luxury. We interviewed his housekeeper and driver, but they knew little about Weston's private life. He was indeed notoriously private.

"Mr. Weston often brought new paintings home," said his housekeeper, a middle-aged woman with a tense face. "But he never discussed them. In fact, there was one room upstairs that was always locked. We were forbidden to enter."

"Upstairs," I murmured, recalling how Lupin also tried to reach the upper floor of the gallery. Coincidence? Or was there something connecting these two places?

We requested permission to examine the locked room. Commissioner Richard had already given his approval. Rose forced the door open. Inside, we found a room that served as Weston Emmanuel's private art studio. The room was filled with empty canvases, brushes, oil paints, and several unfinished painting sketches.

In the middle of the room stood an empty easel. As if a painting had just been removed from it. I noticed remnants of paint pigment dust clinging to the floor. The sharp smell of oil paint filled the air, much stronger than in the gallery.

"He paints?" I asked Rose. "Isn't he an art appraiser?"

"It seems he had a hidden hobby," Rose replied, examining one of the sketches on the wall. The sketch was the face of a young woman with a sad expression. Her eyes reminded me of Aruna's eyes in the previously troubled painting.

I looked around the room, trying to find other visual clues. There were several books on art history and painting restoration. On one of the work tables, I found a small microscope and some paint-cleaning chemicals. This indicated that he not only painted but also performed restoration.

"Painting restoration," Rose repeated. "That means he worked with old paintings. Perhaps the ancient painting he kept secret was something he was restoring here."

I examined the microscope. Beside it, there were some small canvas fibers clinging. I carefully picked them up. They were somewhat dark in color, like very old canvas.

"Whispers... a silenced melody..." I mumbled, recalling the lyrics left by the killer. "A silenced melody, ending life's symphony." This continued to bother me. There was something deeper than just a forgery. This was a personal motive, related to art, and perhaps, a bitter past. I had to delve into the nuances of those words.

We found an old photo album in one of the desk drawers. The album contained photos of Weston Emmanuel in his youth, with several friends. They looked like art students, posing in front of paintings and sculptures. One photo caught my attention: Weston posing next to a young man with long hair and sharp eyes, holding a paintbrush. Behind them, there was an unfinished abstract painting.

"Who is this?" I asked Rose, pointing to the long-haired man.

Rose scrutinized the photo. "No name. But this is interesting. He looks like a true artist."

Below the photo, there was faint handwriting: "A masterpiece never finished."

A masterpiece. Never finished. I felt the puzzle pieces beginning to fit. "A silenced melody." A work of art that was never finished, perhaps because it was silenced.

Rose and I decided to search for information about the long-haired man. We showed his photo to Cadhla and Ellie, but they didn't recognize him. We also tried searching through the police database, but without a name, it was very difficult. I realized this was an extra effort, seeking information from non-verbal clues like photos.

"We need to expand our search to the local art community," Rose said. "Perhaps there's an old artist who recognizes this man."

As we conducted our investigation, an unexpected event occurred. A report came into the police station: an ancient bronze statue in a small museum in the city center had been stolen. The statue was hundreds of years old and had immeasurable historical value.

"It must be Lupin again!" Commissioner Richard said, frustrated. "They're on the move again!"

Rose and I exchanged glances. An ancient bronze statue. Not a painting. But something was strange. Lupin stole a statue, not a painting. Yet the art gallery was full of paintings. Did they just want to divert our attention again? Or was there a hidden meaning behind this statue theft?

I remembered the bronze sculpture next to Weston Emmanuel's body. The abstract sculpture screaming in pain. Was there a connection? This was too many coincidences. Lupin was a nuisance, but their actions sometimes contained clues. I had to be able to react quickly to changing situations.

"This isn't just Lupin, Commissioner," I said. "There's something bigger than this."

We decided to go to the museum. I brought my pistol and knife, Rose with her chain and pistol. The atmosphere at the museum was also tense. Police lines, emergency lights, and chaos.

"The statue is missing from its pedestal," said a museum official. "There are no signs of damage. It's as if it was carefully taken."

I examined the statue's pedestal. There were fine scratches on its surface, as if something had been forcibly dragged. And nearby, I found another tarot card: "The Tower" card, drawn with a striking red lightning bolt.

————————————————

Destruction is the beginning,

Lies revealed in ruins.

A broken song,

Echoes among the debris.

————————————————

"The Tower," Rose murmured. "Destruction, crisis, downfall. And red lightning... sudden destruction."

I felt this strangeness. Lupin's motive was theft, not leaving tarot cards with metaphorical messages like this. And why steal an ancient statue, not a painting? This was too complicated. The mastermind of the murder, Lupin, and now this. This killer was deliberately challenging us. I had to devise a more efficient strategy, considering every possibility.

I stared at "The Tower" and "The Hanged Man" cards. Both had themes of destruction, lies, and death. This was no longer just a simple phrase riddle. This was a hidden narrative, a story the killer wanted to reveal. The motive for this murder might be very personal, related to a dark past.

"A broken song." This returned to the theme of sound and melody. Did this statue have a connection to sound? I tried to find a strange, invisible connection. Perhaps the statue, or its material, had certain acoustic properties.

I also realized that Lupin might not just be a nuisance, but also a victim of a larger mastermind's scheme. They might just be tools, unaware. An idea that forced me to change my entire perspective.

The search for Weston Emmanuel's ancient painting and the identity of the man in the photo must continue. We needed to find out what happened in the past, what lies were being referred to, and who was the mastermind behind this "broken symphony of life." Darkness continued to envelop Southampton, and every clue only led us deeper into this dangerous labyrinth.