Lazarus Island
Page 19
“I think you should take a look for yourself, sir,” Lampshire said.
Perhaps the curious driver had been correct in his assumption, Darknoll wondered. Perhaps this was not just another case of accidental manslaughter or crime of passion . . .
They walked briskly down the jetty together, the click-clack of Darknoll’s cane providing a rhythmic accompaniment to his turbulent thoughts. Out in the bay, obscured by the low-lying mist, a tugboat bleated its horn with a mournful timbre. At the end of the pier they found several constables in greatcoats bearing portable lanterns. They peered out of the mist with the gaunt masks of ghosts.
Lying on the boards at their feet was the body of a young woman. The face did not appear to be beaten or bruised, although the eyelids and cheeks were heavily painted in a manner most commonly associated with women of disrepute. The victim was fully clothed, her arms and legs splayed, positioned in such a way as to resemble an X-shape. A brief examination of the victim showed no tethers binding her hands and feet. No signs of bruising about the neck. No cuts. No blood.
“Who discovered the body?” Darknoll asked.
“The wharf master’s son,” Lampshire said.
“He’s been taken into custody?”
“No, sir, we sent him home with his father.”
Darknoll’s eyes flashed. “Why?”
“Because he’s eight years old, sir.”
“Oh, I see.”
“We took statements from father and son,” Lampshire said, “but they knew very little.”
Darknoll scanned the surrounding area, the edges of the jetty cloaked in seeping mist. On the boards around the body patches of rainwater glistened in the moonlight.
“The boy didn’t touch anything did he?”
“He says he didn’t. He said it was all he could do not to vomit. He looked pale as a nun when we spoke to him.”
Leaning on his cane, Darknoll crouched down on one knee and studied the still figure.
How did you die, my girl? he wondered. What caused your young heart to stop beating?
Lampshire leaned over, hands on knees, to address the corpse directly. “Somebody has done for you, young Henrietta, haven’t they? You’ll be sleeping with the Devil himself tonight, won’t you now?”
“Hold your tongue, Sergeant,” Darknoll said in a controlled tone. “Have some respect for the dead.”
Lampshire took the chastisement without a flicker of remorse. “Respect?” he said, with a snort. “She was a whore, sir. The only thing she respected was money for you know what.”
“All the more reason to pity her, Sergeant. Now, let that be the last word on the subject.”
Darknoll felt Lampshire’s eyes upon him, but he continued to study the dead girl.
“So, Sergeant, what do we know about the child?”
“Not a great deal,” Lampshire said. Darknoll noted the tightness in his voice. “Henrietta Swan. Twenty-one years old. She worked the streets in the Portland district. Word was she would do anything for any man. And she liked the rougher kind.”
Darknoll appraised the victim once more in light of this. Studying the girl’s painted face, he felt a sudden bolt of empathy, a deep and abiding sorrow for the victim. He imagined a mother, a father, an older brother, perhaps, all of them heartbroken and praying, daily, for this young woman’s redemption.
Then he saw her with her killer in the shadows of a filthy alleyway somewhere. He could almost imagine the man’s face, but it had no features: just a face-like blur, smudged by an artist’s thumb. Perhaps he was a client and she entertained his deviant desires at first; perhaps he asked her to indulge him in some obscene act, an act which quickly got out of hand. Perhaps, even near the end, she never suspected this night would be her last, and that the redemption her family prayed for would be stolen away forever . . .
Darknoll felt emotion rising up inside him and tried to shake it off. Most police officers became hardened to the victims they encountered, especially in a turbulent, overcrowded city such as London. Sorrow was a luxury they could not afford to indulge in. Empathy was a curse.
“Have we established cause of death?” Darknoll said, pulling a leather glove over his left hand.
“You could say that, sir,” Lampshire said. He gestured over his shoulder to a spot on the boards a few yards from the body. An object about the size of a fist rested on the boards, but it was impossible to see it clearly from this distance. Darknoll and Lampshire moved over to it, two of the constables following with lanterns. When the light fell on it, Darknoll grimaced.
It was a human heart, the major arteries severed neatly, almost surgically. A small amount of blood had congealed on the boards beneath it. Surrounding the organ was a simple diagram made from what appeared to be a white powder. The diagram consisted of a circle around the heart with twelve branches leading off from the central circle to twelve smaller circles.
Darknoll crouched down and dabbed his right forefinger into the powder. He sniffed it, then tasted it.
“Salt,” he said.
“What do you make of this, Inspector?” Lampshire said, indicating the diagram. “Constellations, perhaps?”
Darknoll shrugged. “It looks like no constellation I’ve ever seen.” He pulled out his notebook and quickly sketched the strange symbol. “Has anyone examined Miss Swan’s body to confirm that this is her heart?”
“No,” Lampshire said. “No one has touched her. We were waiting for you, sir. Inspector’s privilege.”
A hiss of suppressed laughter went round the group of constables. Lampshire turned his face away in an attempt at masking his smile.
Darknoll stared up at Lampshire, irritation and anger burning in his gut. He waited for his deputy to meet his eyes, and when he finally did, the smile vanished from his face.
“Right, Sergeant Lampshire,” Darknoll said. “Let’s have it, then.”
“Sir?”
Darknoll indicated the body. “Come on, Sergeant, I would dearly like to hear your analysis. In your own time.”
Lampshire glanced at the other constables with an expression of complete surprise. After some hesitation, he crouched down and began to study the dead girl.
“Well,” he said, “obviously no signs of external trauma. Neck and wrists free of bruising.”
“So what does that tell us?” Darknoll asked, one eyebrow arched in anticipation.
“That . . . that she was not restrained? She was a willing participant up until the moment of her death?”
Darknoll nodded. “Very good. Now, unbutton her blouse.”
“Sir?”
“We found a human heart, Lampshire. We need to determine that it does indeed belong to Miss Swan.”
Lampshire frowned before crouching again. He gently lifted the small brown cardigan which covered her upper torso. The fabric of the dress underneath was sodden with blood. The deep red blotch was concentrated around the heart. Lampshire clumsily unfastened the hook and eye buttons until her entire chest area was exposed. Every man cursed aloud when they saw the result.
The victim’s ivory-coloured brassiere had been cut down the centre and now hung to the sides of the chest. In the place where the woman’s heart should have been there was a gaping hole, a rude red cavity in the lower half of her chest. Blood had dried to a dark crust on the pale skin of her breasts.
Darknoll knelt down on the other side, removed his derby and smoothed his hair with a gloveless hand.
Lampshire looked at him, and Darknoll thought his deputy had grown pale. It made a welcome change to see the arrogance go out of the man’s face.
Darknoll studied the hollow cavity, noticing another bloody mark just visible beneath the fabric of the open blouse. He reached over and pulled the shirt down an inch to reveal a definite shape, but one hard to define in the low light.
“You,” he said to one of the nearby constables. He appeared to be the youngest. “What’s your name?”
“Thacker, sir.”
“Hold your
lantern above me, Thacker. I need light.”
The constable stumbled forward, holding the lantern directly above the pale corpse; at the same time half a dozen other beams of light fell on the area surrounding the body, creating an intense, almost ethereal, glow to the scene. The dead girl looked almost angelic.
Darknoll examined the ornate symbol carved into the skin. Three wavy lines crossed through by a single jagged scar.
He unfastened the remaining buttons and folded back the two halves of her blouse to reveal more symbols carved across the girl’s stomach and groin.
“Dear God,” Lampshire said.
Darknoll pored over the other symbols: a cat’s head with a solitary eye in the centre, a triangle with a star at its centre, a gate with a crescent above it. There were thirteen in total, covering the torso in a rough circular pattern.
Eventually Darknoll sat back on his haunches, staring into the wall of mist.
“I know what this is,” Lampshire said. “I’ve seen this before.”
Darknoll said nothing, his lips pressed tight together.
“Witchcraft,” Lampshire said, standing up abruptly and moving some distance away from the circle. “Saw something similar up in Winchmore Hill back in ninety-two. Animals with their organs cut out. Weird symbols painted in blood. Black magic.” He sniffed dismissively. “It’s the blackies bringing it over from Africa. Bloody mumbo-jumbo if you ask me.”
Before anyone could respond, the silence was shattered by a loud inhalation followed by a piercing scream.
Darknoll flinched as a hand flailed out and grabbed hold of the lapel of his coat. It took a few seconds for him to register that the hand belonged to the girl. Her eyes were open and staring, filled with panic and naked terror. The young woman was trying to pull herself up into a sitting position, but ended up pulling Darknoll down towards her.
“Cass-ku nuo-shi!” she stammered. “Barra-nokk! Vestanji!”
A thousand thoughts rolled through Darknoll’s mind, every one of them obfuscated by his shock and confusion. He was looking at a girl who, until a moment ago, had been stone cold dead at their feet; now that same woman was looking into his eyes and screaming.
Oh God, her eyes.
He had never seen such fear.
She can’t be alive, he kept hearing himself say. Her heart is missing. She can’t—
“Help me,” she said, her face an inch from his. Her breath smelled like cold meat. “Please help me. I’m so frightened. I can see them. Dark shapes moving beyond the silver sea. Hideous monsters! Oh God, it’s so dark . . . so cold.”
She trailed off, sobbing, choking. Her grip on his collar relaxed.
Darknoll recovered his senses, grabbing the girl’s slackening hand. Her skin was so cold.
“Henrietta,” he said hurriedly. “Henrietta, listen to me. Everything will be . . .”
A horrible gargling sound in her throat. She was slipping away.
What was he going to say to her? Everything will be all right? He couldn’t bring himself to say that. The girl was dead.
What could he say?
A moment later her hand smacked against the boards and her eyes fluttered closed. Darknoll stared at her still form for a long time, his head filled with a dull, muted buzzing.
The sound of waves lapping against the wharf struts filled the silence.
“Sir?”
It was Thacker, the young constable. His lantern was visibly trembling. Darknoll looked up and found tears in the young man’s eyes and a pained, questing look on his face. The boy needed reassurance, answers.
“Sir, what just happened?”
Darknoll stared at him for a long time, then looked at Lampshire. The sergeant’s features were drawn into a tight frown. He sensed Darknoll’s eyes upon him and shook his head, for once at a loss for words.
Table of Contents
Lazarus Island
Author's Note
About the Author
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