Ten minutes later, Ammosta was already sitting at a table with local villagers in the tavern, and there were many more empty wine cups on the table in front of them.
"Oh, I see now –"
Ammosta wiped the sweet wine on his lips with his guard, and he said interestedly,
"You're all on alert because of the mysterious death of Old Frank, and the police have advised you to be cautious of strangers wandering near the village, which is why you're being vigilant towards me."
"Who could have expected that?"
Among the several, the oldest, with his completely white hair, sighed deeply and sighed.
"On the very afternoon before his accident, I saw him working in the garden. Who would have thought that would be the last time I saw him. To be honest, Frank never had much luck in his life, did he?"
"Yes, poor old guy."
Perhaps it was because of Ammosta's generosity in buying him a lot of wine that the bar owner no longer regarded Ammosta as a murderer,
"Old Frank had been in the war when he was young, and he even did us a favor back then –"
"Is it possible –"
Ammosta maintained a listening attitude, while everyone mourned for Frank, who was usually ignored but felt sympathy after death, Ammosta opened up in time.
"Is it possible that it was a natural death? I mean, according to your words, old Mr. Frank was quite elderly, wasn't he?"
Ammosta's question plunged the tavern into silence, and the few drunkards gazed at Ammosta, clearly telling him that they had more sensational gossip to share with him, but the price was that he needed to pay something.
"Excuse me, the owner..."
The bar owner had been waiting for this moment. As soon as Ammosta waved his hand, he brought a few glasses of sherry to the table.
Swoosh
Old Dott quickly emptied his glass in one gulp, satisfactorily smacking his lips before his face took on a mysterious expression.
"This isn't as simple as you think, young man. The police are at a loss because they can't find any problems with Mr. Frank's body, but when he was carried out of Lordeld Mansion –"
"Sorry," Ammosta immediately interrupted Old Dott's words. He frowned and asked, "Whose mansion?"
"The Ridдел Mansion, you must have seen it, the house on the hill," Old Dott said with a bit of excitement, "That house has had several owners, but it originally belonged to the Riddeles. Mr. and Mrs. Riddele, and their evil son Tom Riddele, all died in that house within fifty years, just like Old Frank. They were scared to death before they died, but there were no traces on their bodies."
"The police still remember that case from those days –"
The owner spoke to Ammosta in a pleasant tone, "So they decided that Frank's death must be murder."
"That's no wonder."
Ammosta took a sip of wine and nodded silently.
"You left out one thing!"
Most of the content had been finished by Old Dott, and one of the remaining patrons who had been served several drinks by Ammosta said eagerly,
"When the Riddel family passed away, there was only Old Frank alive in that house, and the police thought he was the killer. But Frank insists he's innocent. He only told the police that on the day of the incident, he found a little boy near the house. No one in the village had ever seen him before, so the police believed he was making it up!"
Whether the boy existed or not, whether he could be the killer of the Riddel family, and whether Old Frank died in the hands of the boy years later, several people expressed their opinions and argued.
Ammosta maintained a polite smile, but his eyes held a hint of indifference.
He indeed didn't expect, Voldemort had actually returned to his hometown after traveling through mountains and rivers.
It's no wonder that the old owner of the house on the mountain was killed by Voldemort.
Tom Riddle.
Voldemort was an orphan and grew up in an orphanage like yourself. However, after he found his family, he did not recognize them and instead cold-bloodedly killed them.
Ammosta didn't bother to think about the love-hate entanglements involved, but basically, it was just like his own situation, only his situation was special, so he didn't care too much about it. In contrast, Voldemort chose the most extreme approach.
"Has Old Frank been buried already?"
Suddenly, Ammosta asked a question with no context.
"The police took his body away and haven't returned it. I guess they are still trying to figure out what caused Old Frank's death, but I think they are wasting their time, just like before."
Ammosta nodded, but said nothing else.
To be honest, Lordel Mansion is indeed a magnificent and luxurious mansion.
It's quite a distance from the village, relatively quiet. Because it's built on high ground, the vast scenery of the plains can be enjoyed in full view. If it wasn't for his current place to stay, and since this is Voldemort's hometown, Ammosta might have really considered buying this mansion from its current owner.
A glowing orb floated in the air, illuminating the stairs to the second floor, which were blocked off by police lines.
The stone stairs, piled with a thick layer of dust, had disorganized footprints. They should have been left by the police when they rushed to the second floor after receiving the news. To avoid unnecessary trouble, Ammosta had been in a floating state since entering this house.
Ammosta raised his height and leapt over the blockade, speeding up suddenly. With a whoosh, he flew up to the second floor.
Since both the villagers and the police had been to this house, it meant that the wizard inside had long since left. Therefore, Ammosta did not waste any more time on guard and directly floated towards the room that the villagers spoke of—the room where the gardener, Frank Bryce, was found dead.
That's easy to spot because the muggle police set up another barrier outside this room.
On the night Old Frank died, everything in the village was normal. A few drunkards in the tavern drank until midnight and were then forcibly thrown out of the inn by the owner to go to sleep. These guys were swaying as they walked home when they suddenly saw that a green light appeared from the second floor of Lordel Mansion on the hill. The light was very piercing and chilled their hearts.
Accompanying the green light was a rumble, as if something had exploded.
Under the influence of alcohol, these few drunkards rushed into the house to investigate the source of the light and noise, and then they discovered the dead Old Frank.
The police were highly skeptical of the drunks' testimony, as after a careful examination of the scene, they found no signs that anything had been moved. Moreover, there was no damage to any old objects from an explosion. No, the police suspected that there was no explosion or green light; these idle loafers were likely just seeing a flash of lightning.
The room was tidied up in a hurry.
Magic can't be easily hidden, and the room's furnishings haven't changed in half a century. An old fireplace, a dusty armchair, creaking wooden floors, and ancestors' oil paintings with holes from moths – all of this looked normal from a muggle's perspective.
But to Ammosta's eyes, there were clear signs of magic having been used to repair them.
The overgrown lawn outside the window basked in the moonlight, and the wind that intruded uninvited sang a sinister song of bloodshed.
Ammosta drew his wand and traced complex and esoteric patterns in front of him.
In the dark environment, there was a sudden increase in fine light sand in the air. These radiant light sands, following the movements of Ammosta's wand, gradually formed an orderly image.
Ammosta retreated to the wall and stood silently watching the moving images in the sky. The sharp outlines of his face were cast into relief by the flickering shadows, which seemed cold and stern. After a long time, the shadows dispersed, and everything was as usual. However, a voice that was both stern and authoritative echoed through the abandoned mansion.
"--Bertha Jorkins."
(End of chapter)
