‘Of course, she is very pretty and it did not take long for her ways to overcome me, and I found myself having a wooing desire for her. Peter, though, was always much better with girls than I, and before long they were seeing each in secret—never in front of mother, though. If she knew… well, it would have been a disgrace for the good Teralov name and Anita would be cast out onto the streets, unlikely to find work again—at least in Prague. Such complex matters do involve the heart, and for many years I longed for Anita.
‘I must confess, my jealousy and anger towards Peter did grow, for he knew how I felt about her. She always ignored me… beyond the course of her duty, in fact.’ Juraj let out a sigh as if to pause and recollect for a moment to gather his thoughts. Edgar waited. ‘She was polite when mother was around, but I believe she somewhat feared me.’
Edgar, having listened with good intent and without interruption, now looked down at his shoes and tapped his foot twice, in time with the rhythm of the train as it headed farther south and towards its destination.
‘Juraj, the story is all well and good but you have not yet explained why Anita hated you so. Tell me, what exactly happened there?’
In reply, Juraj exhaled and his face filled with a sorrow not quite known to Edgar—a face met with regret and repentance for past misgivings. He paused for a moment as if searching his mind for an answer that would sufficiently satisfy the detective’s current line of questioning.
‘I did love her, there is no doubt of that,’ he began, looking directly into Edgar’s eyes now, who noted a look of challenging repentance. ‘But I threatened her—I told her if she were not to end her affair with Peter, I would out them both to mother. The consequences would have been dire of course, yet she refused, professing she loved him so and wanted to be with him, and that Peter had promised her they, too, would be together one day—that mother would have understood and would have come around to the idea, eventually. Peter was good like that—convincing, you know?
‘As for my threat, I never did go through with it—I couldn’t bring myself to. Against my own will and burning hate and green jealousy, I did love them both and could not bring myself to hurt them in such ways, but, alas, Anita was never the same around me again. She has always lived in fear of my threat, to this day.’
Slapping both hands down abruptly with a loud smack, Edgar looked at Juraj with a face of furious thunder and shocked discontent, but then gave a brief gasp of laughter as he raised his eyebrows with childlike joy.
‘Well, Juraj—you certainly are an open book! The Teralov family is more complicated than perhaps I had first thought!’ he exclaimed with a beaming disposition.
‘I suppose you might say that I am, or indeed that we are!’ responded Juraj, as his face too began to curl into a slight smile, solace washing over his being.
The pair then chortled into a burst of laughter; one man consoled himself by enjoying the misery of the other, and the other quite frankly relieved he would not be sent to the doomsday barrows of Moscow for trial and retribution— or at least, not just yet.
Enjoying the brief moment of laughter, Edgar reached a hand into his pocket to retrieve a tissue to wipe away a tear of joyous pleasure from his eyes. However, much to his surprise, he found that whilst the matchbox he had found on Peter’s body was present, the bronze embroiled brooch was not.
Where had it gone? How could an item of such importance to the investigation have gone missing? The incompetence, you fool! Edgar thought to himself.
The laughing and enjoyment quickly dimmed as his expression changed from one of childlike happiness to that of a sombre and stern demeanour.
‘What is it?’ remarked Juraj, as he, too, cooled into a serious tone and expression as he watched Edgar’s face turn into one of a stony and fearful deposition.
‘Peter’s brooch,’ murmured Edgar, ‘it is gone.’
5.
The train pulled into the station, announcing itself with its arrival into Bratislava. Collecting their few belongings consisting of a knapsack each, the pair disembarked from the train and stepped out into what was now a cool and dark evening. The stars were peering down and a moonlit pathway illuminated before them, greeting them into the city.
Examining his wristwatch, Edgar muttered under his frosty breath, ‘Eight forty-five: must get a move on.’
‘Tis cold,’ said Juraj. ‘Much more so than Prague, don’t you think?’
Edgar frowned and gave an unbothered response that Moscow knew far colder nights in the summer. Juraj laughed a little. He could not help but enjoy the bitter yet warningly charismatic approach of the old detective.
‘Lenka Martarova,’ started Edgar, with a look of deep thought racing across his mind. ‘Where to begin, where can I find her? If you had just run back home after spending the night with Peter, where would you go? You are scared and you may or may not have been involved in his murder. Where would you go? Who would you go to?’ Speaking in a monologue of deductive proportions and plotting the pieces of the broken puzzle into one, Edgar tried to make sense of the trail. Currently a dead end, but everyone can be found—eventually.
‘Lenka?’ queried Juraj, almost rhetorically, confirming with the detective that
