The Mill House Murders

... No.' She had said the word very faintly, but I heard it clearly. She had wilfully lied to me. I didn't know what to think.

There had been an accident, and there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was finish his remaining tasks for the night.

In the end, people are only able to think and feel within the limits of the "system", the specific culture of the society they belong to. Notions like artistic value and beauty are inevitably shackled by that system, and even the words we use are dictated by it.

And after Kōjin had been spirited away, Masaki used a lighter or torch to signal to his accomplice waiting in the tower room, to let her know the deed had been done.” “Accomplice? You mean, Yurie too?…” Mori exclaimed, adjusting his spectacles once. “Yes, she is the only person who could be Masaki’s accomplice. The suspicious light Kuramoto happened to see from his room was Masaki signalling to her.

And if Kōjin was murdered on the first floor of the annex and cut into pieces there, only one person could have done it: Masaki Shingo. And that means that the cut-up body found later that night did not belong to Masaki Shingo, but to Kōjin. At this stage, it is easy to imagine how the body was swapped. “That night Masaki Shingo killed Kōjin after he returned to room 5. He undressed him, carried him to the bathroom and, using the meat cleaver and hatchet he had got ready beforehand, he cut the body into six parts.

He moved slowly closer. I backed away, but he kept coming, looking down at me with pity, as if I were a wounded animal. “Do you really want me to pull that mask off your face, Mr Masaki Shingo?

But wouldn’t it have been possible for someone to leave through the window if they were dead, and cut up into pieces? Let me put it differently. If Furukawa Kōjin truly managed to vanish from the first floor, the only way he could have done it was as a dead body cut up into smaller parts.

Yes. I remember noticing that the carpet in the Southern Gallery was wet when we were on our way back to the annex.

Ōishi Genzō was an art dealer who used to handle many of Issei’s paintings. Mori Shigehiko was the son of the art historian who first recognized the artistic value of Issei’s works and made him famous. Mitamura Noriyuki would inherit the hospital where Kiichi and his two friends had been treated after their accident twelve years ago.

There was another flash outside, followed after a while by a clap of thunder. It was almost as if the weather was mocking our melodrama.

In the gloomy darkness, I revealed my accursed face.

She raised her face slightly. Terrified eyed looked at me from behind the veil of her hair.

You shouldn't lie to me,' I said finally, with an aching heart.

It sounded like the beating heart of the house.

The frantic storm continued to rage around the house as I moved down the gloomy gallery. The sound of the wind and rain were joined by the crashing of the mill wheels, turning monotonously yet faster than usual. It sounded like the beating heart of the house.

His silence made even the white mask seem melancholic.

He cursed the storm that had upset his peaceful life.

A cold death mask worn by a living man.

I placed my pipe on its stand and started getting dressed. I took my pyjamas off, put on a shirt and trousers, and a dressing gown on top. When I had managed to do all of this, I put the cotton gloves on both my hands. And finally, it was time to put on my face. My mask.

An indescribable, inescapable shiver welled up from deep within and ran through my whole being.