"The smell...is fading..."
As long as you follow the strong smell emanating from the corpse, and with Miss Quinn's hound-like sense of smell, the criminal will be found out sooner or later even if he hides in the ends of the earth.
But at this moment, even the traces of rotten mucus seeping into the wood on the inner wall of the coffin became lighter and colorless, as if it were a brand new coffin.
No trace remained, and the body seemed to disappear out of thin air.
At Ed's suggestion, the three of them worked together to dig out the coffin. There was thick loess underneath - there were no underground tunnels or suspicious items.
Logically speaking, the disappearance of a body is not a big deal, but the murderer's motive is really suspicious——
The corpses of extraordinary people must be processed and buried in closely guarded tombs to prevent contamination or mutation.
The dead buried in the East District Cemetery are all poor ordinary people. They are unlikely to have valuable burial objects, nor are they likely to have occult value themselves.
Even if the murderer used it for dissection or occult research, why did he only steal one body after so much effort?
He thought that the only possibility was that the body itself had some special meaning to the body robber.
The love of my life, Margaret Quinto…
Kuntu should be the husband's surname. Ed pondered the words on the tombstone:
"Could it be related to this Mr. Kuntu?"
"Unlikely, I know this man - he is a painter, generous and philanthropic. Later, when his family fell into decline, he sold his ancestral home and moved to Mole Street in the East District to make a living selling paintings." Father Dylan replied road.
After meeting Mr. George, Ed no longer has faith in so-called "kind people". In the face of madness, there is no distinction between good and evil.
"Does he have a harmonious relationship with Madam?"
"They were a model couple. Not only did Mrs. Kuntu fully support his painting ideal, she also did some part-time textile work to support the family..."
Father Dylan raised his head, as if recalling the past, and his cynical tone gradually became less harsh:
"...Later, Mrs. Kuntu contracted tuberculosis and died, and I presided over the funeral at that time. I remember Mr. Kuntu's eyes, blue and sad."
"Let's put it this way, I have seen a lot of deception in my life. But love is love, and true love cannot be faked."
Ed listened more and more confused. With such deep love between husband and wife, Mr. Kuntu has no reason to desecrate his wife’s eternal sleep, but...
"Anyway, let's visit Mr. Kuntu's house. At least he should know about the theft of his wife's body."
"Here, you go too." Quinn told Dylan.
"Why do I?"
Dylan's tone didn't sound objectionable, but he had to wait for Quinn to finish explaining his reasons.
"The body was stolen from your church cemetery. You should at least come and apologize in person."
"Okay, okay... I didn't expect that one day it would be my turn to confess to someone else."
He twirled a handful of hair in a rather dissolute manner, nodded slightly and said.
…
Unlike Buckler Street and Bauhinia Street, which are close to the Central District, Mole Street is an original East District street, muddy, dirty and smelly.
The houses here are closely connected to their neighbors. In the heavy fog that often occurs in Silvermist City, they look like deformed conjoined twins.
It was like a ghost town in front of me, with very few pedestrians coming and going, and even children playing could not be seen - they were either working in factories or selling newspapers on the crowded streets.
This is like the entrance to an abyss.
Mr. Kuntu's residence can be described as "luxurious" here. There is a small yard surrounded by a brick wall at the back, and there are some cheap and durable potted plants at the door, which constitute the only green in this gray area.
Judging from the state of these potted plants, Mr. Kuntu should still live here - or at least he hasn't been away for too long.
However, the blinds were closed tightly in broad daylight, which gave people a bad feeling.
Ed could only comfort himself. It was common for painters to go out to collect materials. Don't take everything in a bad direction.
"Mr. Kuntu! Mr. Kuntu?"
No one answered the door.
Quinn was about to break in, but Ed reached out to stop her, took out the one-eyed spider, and entered the room through the broken hole in the backyard window glass.
The bedroom was a mess: dirty clothes, canvases, food, papers, candles and wine bottles strewn on the floor. Flies were flying everywhere, stopping from time to time to rub their forelimbs as if to declare their sovereignty.
On the surrounding walls, there are piles of Mr. Kuntu’s previous works. Blood-red handwriting is densely written on the walls, as if a kind of self-suggestion——
"I must recall." The font revealed blood-red rust.
Something big has happened.
Ed suddenly set the beak of the white crow's cane into the door panel, slammed it back, and the door opened with a sound.
As the door was pushed open, thin light poured into the room, causing flies to fly away. Quinn rushed into the room quickly, drew his gun resolutely and searched every room, but did not find Mr. Kuntu.
"No one is here."
As the muzzle of the gun whirled, she put the gun back into the leather holster, her eyes wandering and sniffing slightly, trying to find a suspicious smell.
Ed tiptoed into the room and could see that Mr. Kuntu had painted clichéd things in the past: children playing marbles, farmers holding fruit baskets, and ladies sitting on the coffee table to rest.
It cannot be said that Mr. Kuntu's painting skills are lacking. These characters are by no means lacking in refinement——
On the contrary, even a layman like Ed can tell that the composition, color, and lines of each work have been rigorously considered.
However, they looked dull and insincere, giving them a sense of barren and vulgar distortion.
It can be seen that Mr. Kuntu also realizes this problem:
These works were painted with thick, nameless dark paint angrily and repeatedly to create twisted swirling patterns, as if to vent their emotions. Some of the paint dripped down the canvas and eventually dried up.
"It's unimaginable..." Dylan looked around and commented, "He wasn't like this before."
"When was the last time he came out to sell his works?" Ed asked.
"No, painters generally don't sell their works themselves. They rely on agents or middlemen to sell their works, just like writers rely on editors."
The three of them rummaged through the chaos for any possible clues, and finally found a notebook wrapped in old cowhide.
Dylan flipped through a few pages quickly with his fingers, and then handed it to Ed: "Mr. Kuntu's diary."
Ed leaned over. The writing in the notebook was very sloppy and the content was quite concise. The content of the first half of the diary is very normal, basically a running account...
Wait, there is...
March 27, 1899. I lost my Margaret, the love of my life. How long are you going to continue to live alone in the world?
April 1, 1899. I had to pick myself up and keep painting. For my ideals, and for Margaret.
April 9, 1899. I burned Margaret's old clothes and all the photos. I could no longer see anything related to her. They hurt more than a razor's edge.
June 3, 1899. The work is still a mess. I still dream about Margaret, but the warmth of her lips has gradually faded.
December 5, 1899. I was drunk again, and I haven’t drawn anything decent for more than half a year. Margaret will still appear in my dreams, but her voice seems to have changed a bit. What should her original voice look like?
March 7, 900. A year has passed. Why should I burn her photos? If I had kept one, at least I could still see her face in my dreams. She started to become distorted, maybe I almost forgot about her.
June 15, 900. I met Buck. He is a talented artist and his criticism of my work is spot on. I can find a strange empathy from him, maybe I should start creating.
January 1, 901. Happy New Year! Wimp, useless trash, Stone Kuntu.
February 14, 1901. I finally felt an involuntary urge to paint. I want to draw a picture for her, but are her eyes brown or brown? I can't remember.
February 15, 1901. I told Buck my plan, and he understood. He is the only one in the world who can understand me.
February 36, 1901. After ten years, I finally returned to the family tomb. I must find the Curtain Gallery's legacy, the "Elixir of Relics." Take her and I will recall the colors of the past.
Subdue her...
The word made the hairs on the back of Ed's hands stand up. He just hoped it was a common syntax error, like the date error above.
He read the diary contents to the two of them, and the three of them discussed countermeasures together:
"Kun Tu's family tomb... do you know the specific location, fake priest?" Quinn asked.
"I'm afraid you think of me as the Difference Engine of the Bureau of Statistics, Miss Hound. I'm a priest, not a prophet." Dylan curled his lips and said sarcastically.
"Perhaps Kuntu will tell this man named Buck the location," Ed analyzed, "since he regards him as a confidant."
"Then where are we going to find this 'Buck'?" She rolled her eyes at the locks on her forehead, "There are more people with this name in the entire Silvermist City than there are dogs named 'Mao Mao'."
"I don't know either."
Ed closed the diary with a bang, looked at the ceiling and said:
"But I know a person who might know..."
