Home » What am I ? » I move without wings, between silken strings. I leave as you find my substance behind. What am I?

I move without wings, between silken strings. I leave as you find my substance behind. What am I?
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A wealthy man lives alone in a small cottage. Being partially handicapped, he had everything delivered to his cottage. The mailman was delivering a letter one Thursday when he noticed that the front door was ajar. Through the opening, he could see the man’s body lying in a pool of dried blood. When a police officer arrived he surveyed the scene. On the porch were two bottles of warm milk, Monday’s newspaper, a catalogue, flyers, and unopened mail. The police officer suspects it was foul play. Who does he suspect and why?
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You have it even if there is none.
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Something wholly unreal, yet seems real to I. Think my friend, tell me where does it lie?
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Tool of thief, toy of queen. Always used to be unseen. Sign of joy, sign of sorrow. Giving all likeness borrowed. What am I?
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Made of ten but two we make, When assembled others quake, Five apart and we are weak, Five together havoc wreak. What are we?
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