Murder as a Fine Art

by David Morrell

  He hugged the ground, trying to assess which direction posed the greater threat. Three clangs from an oxen bell puzzled him. Soon, he noticed silhouettes moving among the wagons. They bent and tugged at various objects. His stomach hardened when he realized what they were doing—stripping clothes from corpses. The silhouettes put the clothes in the wagons, along with various objects that had been unpacked to prepare the night’s meal. They hitched the oxen to the wagons. They herded the goats together and tied the horses to the backs of the wagons.

  The artist had no doubt that everyone in the camp was dead.

  He had no doubt about something else as well. The silhouettes moving among the wagons would soon want to know why the two men sent to kill him hadn’t returned.

  He crawled away from the camp, scanning the horizon for threats. The two members of his unit who had established their own sentry posts—had they possibly survived? When he judged that he was far enough away, he moved in a circle, searching for where the other men had taken their positions.

  Now he again saw moving shadows—two silhouettes tugging clothes from a body that could only belong to one of his comrades.

  Loyalty fought against common sense. So far, he had counted at least twenty silhouettes. He knew that one man in his special unit was dead. What were the odds that the other man had survived? If so, what would that man decide to do? There was no way to save the caravan. The mission now became to determine how the caravan had been overwhelmed and to pass that information to the next caravan that would come through here in two weeks.

  The artist knew that his comrade wouldn’t be foolhardy. If the man was alive, he would back away and hide, as the artist now planned to do. They were trained to be self-reliant. They would survive to defeat this enemy another day.

  Hide? Where? The landscape was barren, except for boulders and the stream. Using the cavalry horses, the marauders who overwhelmed the caravan would easily be able to search the area for miles in every direction.

  The artist made a wide semicircle. Staying low, he retraced the route that the caravan had used to arrive here. He didn’t know if the attackers had the skill to follow his tracks. To eliminate the risk, he walked backward where the animals and wagons had crushed grass and torn up the ground.

  A glow over the eastern hills warned that the sun would soon rise. No matter how low he stayed as he ran, he would soon be visible. Horsemen could easily catch him. He needed to conceal himself.

  He suddenly realized where he was—near the mound that contained the bones of the previous caravan. As the light increased, the artist sprinted toward the rocks, removed some, made a tunnel among the bones, crawled in, pulled the rocks back into place, and arranged the bones so that they concealed him.

  The stench of the rotting flesh made him vomit the biscuits he’d eaten while watching the caravan. Willpower wasn’t enough to keep him from throwing up. The odor was so disgusting and visceral that his body took charge. Buried by death, he fought not to shiver from the cold of the rib cages and skulls above and below him and all around him. Tense, he listened for the sound of approaching horses and voices.

  They came soon. Although the artist didn’t understand their language, their tone was urgent and angry. Evidently the marauders had found the bodies of the men who had tried to kill him. They knew that at least one member of the caravan remained alive, and they were determined to find him.

  The majority of the horses galloped past. Some did not, however. The artist heard the animals shy from the stench, making it difficult for their riders to control them. Someone seemed to suggest that they pull the rocks off the mound and search through the bones. The others protested in disgust. The horses became more upset.

  The horsemen finally galloped on, following the caravan’s tracks down the slope. The artist assumed that other searchers pursued in other directions.

  Feeling crushed by the bones, he took shallow breaths, working to control his nausea. His muscles ached from tension and cramps because of not being able to move.

  He thought about the knotted rope with which an attacker had tried to strangle him. The weapon was favored by the Thug cult. But that didn’t explain how they’d been able to overwhelm forty cavalry soldiers, forty natives, and one, if not two, members of his highly trained unit. Surely one of the soldiers could have fired a shot before being strangled, or else one of the natives would have cried in alarm. But all of them had died silently.

  How was that possible?

  The artist lay among the bones, shivering and brooding, trying to understand how the attack had occurred. Presumably the Thugs had watched from a distance and approached the wagons after dark.

  But how had they soundlessly overwhelmed so many so quickly? Had some of the natives rebelled? But those natives had worked for the British East India Company many years. Why would they suddenly have become traitors?

  The artist’s mind retraced the route of the caravan. At one point, they had allowed a one-legged old man to join them so that he could travel to reach his son’s family in a mountain village. Later, a wizened grandmother with a little girl had also joined the caravan. The little girl had needed a doctor’s attention, and now they were returning home.

  The artist had objected, but the natives had told him that it was customary to allow the helpless to join a caravan, and after all, how could a one-legged old man, a wizened grandmother, and a little girl be threats?

  Rethinking the decision to let them come along, the artist couldn’t disagree with that logic. There was no way that those weak people could have overcome so many natives and soldiers.

  That took him back to his initial thought, that some of the natives had betrayed the caravan.

  The vibration of hooves brought his mind to attention. He heard the rumble coming closer. Returning, the attackers sounded even more angry and frustrated. How he wished that he could understand what they were saying. Had they decided to stop hunting him? What were their plans? If he survived, he swore, he would learn as many local languages as he could.

  They galloped back in the direction of the wagons. Soon, the artist heard the distant clatter of the caravan departing. Wary, he didn’t move. Even after he could no longer hear the animals and wagons, he didn’t move. Someone might have been left behind to study the landscape and see if he crept from cover.

  The morning became silent. His arms and legs demanded to be allowed to move, but he remained immobile beneath the cold bones and the heavy rocks. The small amount of sunlight that reached him changed direction as morning turned to afternoon.

  But he didn’t move. He occupied his mind by trying to understand how the caravan had been overwhelmed.

  The specks of light dimmed as the sun changed direction, afternoon turning to twilight.

  Then everything was dark.

  The artist had long since urinated on himself. His mouth was so dry that his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  He remained in place.

  When he realized that despite his discipline and determination, he had fallen asleep, he bit his lower lip, drawing blood to rouse himself, and decided that if he didn’t take the chance of leaving his burrow he might lapse into unconsciousness there.

  Slowly, silently, he pushed rocks away from the bones. His arms didn’t want to work. With small, careful movements, he emerged from the massive grave, but no matter how deeply he breathed, he couldn’t clear the odor of decay.

  The night sky was again brilliant. Crawling so slowly that he hoped his movements would be imperceptible, the artist moved toward the stream. He plunged his head into it, the icy water shocking him into alertness. Like an animal, he looked cautiously around to make certain that he wasn’t being stalked. He took a deep swallow. Another. And another. The cold water pained his tongue and throat, and made him more alert.

  Scanning the area for moving shadows, he reached into his pockets and nibbled the remainder of the biscuits that he had taken with him the night before. His stomach protested, but he forc
ed down the food, needing strength.

  The departing wagons had gone to the west. His own direction needed to be southeast, toward the caravan that would reach this area in two weeks. Staying low, he followed the stream down the slope.

  And stopped.

  The bodies of the soldiers and natives he had traveled with beckoned him. As much as he wanted to leave, the dead men insisted. He hadn’t been able to protect the caravan. That left him with the obligation of learning how so many men had been overwhelmed.

  Mustering grim resolve, he turned and approached where the wagons had stopped the previous night. He was ready with his knife, expecting that at any moment a shadow would attack him. In the moonlight, he saw long objects on the ground. Some were pale.

  They were bodies stripped of their clothing. Vultures had torn off parts of them. A wolf raised its head from eating, sensed how dangerous the artist was, and skulked away.

  Perhaps one of the attackers had remained and pretended to be a corpse. The artist doubted it. The night was so cold that he couldn’t imagine anyone being able to lie naked on the ground for hour after hour.

  He would know soon enough. Ready to defend himself, he examined each body, eighty of them, plus his two comrades whose bodies he discovered at their sentry positions.

  Eighty-two.

  He assumed that the raiders would have taken the bodies of the two men who’d attacked him. But even so, there should have been eighty-five corpses, including the one-legged old man, the wizened grandmother, and the little girl. The latter three were nowhere to be found.

  They’d been Thugs.

  But it didn’t make sense. How could a crippled old man, a bent-forward grandmother, and a little girl have silently overpowered so many people, including soldiers with combat experience?

  The beginning odor of death hung over the moonlit field as the artist inspected the corpses to determine what had killed them. But in only two cases was the cause of death obvious—his two compatriots all had marks on their throats that indicated they’d been strangled. As for the others, except for what the wolves and the vultures had started to do, there weren’t any injuries.

  How is this possible? It’s almost as if eighty people fell asleep and never woke up.

  Fell asleep? At once, the artist understood what had happened. The crippled old man, the wizened grandmother, and the little girl had poisoned the food that was being prepared, probably adding powder to the pots of water that were boiled for tea. They must have been trained to do it so they wouldn’t be noticed. After the poison had its effect, they had rung the oxen bell three times, signaling for the rest of their band to enter the camp and collect their spoils. The only reason that the artist and his two comrades hadn’t been poisoned was that they’d put biscuits in their pockets and left while the meal was being prepared, wanting to use the activity in camp to conceal their stealthy movements as they chose their sentry positions.

  Poison.

  Yes.

  The artist crept from the field of death. He ran southeast in a crouch for several miles, then felt safe enough to straighten. By then, the sun was up, adding its warmth to the heat generated by his urgency. Eventually he was forced to moderate his pace, eating a few biscuits from his pockets as he moved. Soon he ran again. When he slept, it was only briefly. At all costs, he needed to reach the next caravan. He couldn’t take for granted that the Thugs would wait until the caravan reached this area. They might change their tactics and attack earlier.

  He pushed himself to his limit. On the second day, he reached a farm, where he paid for food and a robe. All the while, he kept his wary attention on the farmer and his family, suspecting they might be Thugs.

  He hurried on, watching for anyone who might follow him from the farm. He reached a village, but instead of entering, he veered around it during the night, suspicious that Thugs might live there. He descended relentlessly.

  On the seventh day, he staggered across a field and found the next caravan. By then, he looked so haggard, windburned, and wild that a cavalry patrol challenged him, believing him to be a native.

  “English,” he managed to say past his swollen tongue as they aimed rifles at him.

  “That’s right. We’re English. Put your hands in the air.”

  “No, I’m English.” His raw throat made his speech indistinct.

  “The beggar can barely talk. Search him for weapons.”

  “Wait. I think I recognize him. Robert? Is that you, Robert?”

  The artist strained to get the words out. “You’re Jack Gordon.”

  “It is Robert! I trained with him! He’s part of my unit!”

  “You’re… attacked.”

  “I can’t understand what you’re saying, Robert. Drink this water.”

  “You’re going to be attacked.”

  Gulping from a canteen, the artist staggered along the caravan. He suddenly pointed at the same one-legged old man, wizened grandmother, and little girl who had joined his own caravan. After soldiers grabbed them, a search revealed that the man was neither old nor one-legged. Makeup made him look elderly. The seemingly absent leg was bent back and up from the knee, strapped in place beneath his robe.

  The stooped, wizened grandmother turned out to be a middle-aged woman of excellent strength. As with the old man, makeup had aged her. The little girl was indeed a little girl, but she was so well trained that she might as well have been an adult. A bag of poison was under her robe.

  The artist rested only briefly, then tortured the captives, wishing that he didn’t need to rely on a native translator. Again, he vowed to learn the area’s languages. He confirmed the signal the Thugs used to tell the rest of the band that everyone in camp was dead from the poison: three clangs from an oxen bell.

  Where would the next attack occur?

  They resisted telling him.

  He inflicted more pain. The little girl finally couldn’t bear it any longer and revealed everything.

  He shot them.

  The caravan reached the area where the attack was supposed to occur. They formed the wagons in a circle for the night, took care of the animals, made an evening meal, and pretended to go to sleep, presumably to die from the poison. The artist rang the oxen bell.

  When twenty Thugs snuck through the darkness, the artist killed five of them himself while the rest of the command took care of the others. He made sure that one Thug was kept alive, and promised to set him free if the Thug would teach him the cult’s methods of disguise. The captive endured unimaginable pain before he finally revealed secret after secret: about makeup, about blackening teeth to make it seem that some were missing, about applying wigs and fake beards and thickening eyebrows, about putting a pebble in a shoe to create a convincing limp. The Thug also revealed various places where his band of marauders camped.

  When the Thug no longer had things to teach, the artist shot him.

  The artist led cavalry to the various Thug campgrounds, destroying everyone there: men, women, and children.

  He was promoted to second lieutenant. Most officers were gentlemen of means who paid to be given authority in the military, sometimes with disastrous results. But the artist received his commission based on merit and reputation.

  Soon he was a full lieutenant.

  The Opium War with China provided even more reasons for him to be promoted. The English government was determined to earn millions of pounds by flooding China with opium. The Chinese emperor was determined to prevent his millions of subjects from becoming mindless. Thus, there needed to be a war that lasted four brutal years, from 1839 to 1842, and the artist needed to kill increasing numbers of people.

  Opium. The lime odor of the countless bricks of it stacked in warehouses made him nauseous. Even the coffee-colored look of the drug affected his stomach. He could no longer drink coffee because of that color. Or tea—after all, tea was what the opium bricks were traded for. He drank increasing quantities of alcohol, however.

  Nightmares woke him, images of bo
nes and corpses swirling as if he were under opium’s influence. The faces of his victims resembled poppy bulbs that exploded with white fluid gushing from them instead of blood.

  A loud noise shocked the artist out of his night terror. He pulled the knife from the scabbard on his wrist, tumbled from his cot, and braced himself for an attack.

  The loud noise was repeated.

  Someone was outside on the street, pounding on the door.

  With visions of the hell of India still turning in his mind, the artist crept around the cot, stepped over the crumpled newspapers, and approached the small window to his bedroom, so small that not even a child could squeeze through it. The window had bars as a further protection.

  The artist pulled a drapery aside and saw darkness beyond the glass. As the pounding on the door continued, he unbolted the window, swung it out, and peered down toward a fog-shrouded man standing under a gas lamp.

  “What do you want?” the artist shouted.

  “You’ve been summoned!”

  13

  The Inquisition

  FOG SWIRLED ON THE STREET known as Great Scotland Yard. Eager to escape the cold, a constable opened a door marked METROPOLITAN POLICE and entered a corridor lit by gas lamps mounted along the wall. He took off his gloves and rubbed his hands together.

  On his left, an elderly woman slumped on a bench, with her head tilted back against the wall. Her eyes were shut, her mouth open. The constable peered close, thinking she might be dead. Then he noticed a slight movement of her chest.

  She had a faded burn scar on her left cheek.

  He turned to his right, addressing a constable behind a counter. “Who’s the old woman on the bench?”

  “Came in four hours ago. Says she wants to talk to Inspector Ryan. Says she has information about the murders.”

  “Which ones? Saturday or tonight?”

  “Neither. The killings forty-three years ago.”

  “Forty-three years ago? Ha. A little late to offer information about them.”

  “Claims she knows something about those that’ll help us solve these.”