HS03 - A Visible Darkness

by Michael Gregorio

  He spoke of barbarity as if he were an apostle of civilisation. Why would he not allow the women to mourn for their comrade who was dead?

  ‘What was her name?’ I asked, unable to tear my eyes away.

  I heard him rustling in his pocket, the sound of a paper being unfolded.

  He had written out her name. He had no idea who she was.

  ‘Kati . . . uscka . . . Rod . . . end . . . ahl,’ he grunted, struggling with the syllables, as if the foreign name were hateful to him.

  I leant over the body, looking closely at the bruised and battered forehead. The head had been struck twice, I judged. The greatest damage was concentrated in the area above her left eye. The eye was closed, the skin bulging, purple, the eyelid grossly swollen up, black with blood. A further blow had dug deep into the bridge of her nose. Had the blows been delivered by a hammer? The blunt edge of an axe? The weapon had been heavy enough to stun her, though the initial attack had not killed her. She was still alive when the butcher began to carry out the mutilations on her unresisting body. Blood had flowed freely down her face and neck, and curdled in her hair. Her heart had gone on beating for quite some time. The battered brow and broken nose told their story of violence, but what was I to make of the yawning emptiness below?

  It was as if her face had collapsed in upon itself. She might have swallowed the pieces. Her upper lip drooped down into the formless space where her mouth ought to have been. A wild beast might have torn the lower part of her face away with a single, ripping bite. The red-raw pit stretched from earlobe to earlobe, encompassing what had been her mouth, her chin and her throat. Scraps of flesh, tangles of nerves, fragments of bone, torn gristle, muscle and shredded cartilage had been roughly hacked away, as if by a demon surgeon.

  Why attack the face alone?

  There was nothing instinctive about it. I had no doubt in my mind. The attack had been carefully planned, premeditated, then put into effect. Those flaps of skin hung loose inside the cavity of the face because the central prop had been torn away, taken out as a single piece. That human face had been—the word took on a strange, perplexing significance—mined. It appeared as if some insane anatomical engineer had drilled and emptied the lower half of her skull, hollowing it out, removing only the deposits that interested him, leaving the rest alone.

  Holding my breath I edged closer to the chasm.

  ‘The jawbone has been cut out,’ I murmured, angling my head, taking advantage of the flickering candlelight to verify the point. ‘I am not an anatomist, but . . . well, you can see the damage clearly enough. These tissues here . . . They would have held the jawbone fixed in place. They are dangling in shreds, like strips of torn paper against the inner walls of the larynx. The teeth are missing, too.’

  The teeth . . .

  Not one remained in the upper jaw.

  ‘Where was she found?’ I asked.

  Katiuscka Rodendahl had been found on the beach beyond the military boundary. She had not presented herself for roll-call at the start of the working day, but no one had attached much importance to that fact.

  ‘They pass through our pickets like shadows,’ he added. ‘She probably left the compound during the night, as many of them do. We search the ones who leave by the gate, of course, but it’s the Devil’s own job. I can hardly trust my men. These girls have a way with lonely Frenchmen far from home.’ He laughed sardonically. ‘They make for Nordcopp village. No one there would chase them away. These girls have money . . .’

  ‘Is that why she was murdered, do you think? For money?’

  A grumbling laugh rumbled out from his throat.

  ‘Amber is more valuable than money, Herr Procurator. Gold comes cheaper. We carry out random body-searches and they yield significant results. But for every piece that we find on them, another bit goes out unnoticed. The traders in Nordcopp are waiting to buy it from them. Amber-trading is against the law, but when did the law stop people trying? Thieving is an art on the Baltic coast. If you hope to stop the theft, you must change the method of collection. And that’s what I intend to do. There’ll be machines all along the coast.’ He made an extravagant gesture with his outstretched hand towards infinity. ‘Machines don’t steal.’

  I had nothing to say on that count.

  ‘Well?’ he growled again. ‘Don’t you want to see the rest of the body?’

  I wanted nothing less in the world.

  My hand was shaking as I threw back the fur coverlet.

  The corpse was naked. And cold, though I barely touched it. The orange glow of a million candles would never warm her up. The body might have been sculpted in grey marble that was veined and mottled with impurities. Light bounced off the taut surface of her skin, leaving shadows in the rolling contours of her well-formed muscles, firm breasts, strong arms, powerful legs. No outward damage was apparent. None at all, indeed. It was as if the torso and the limbs were of no concern to the person who had killed her.

  ‘She was handsome,’ the colonel murmured quietly. ‘Most of them are.’

  His eyes were fixed on the triangle formed by her stomach and thighs. A thicket of curly dark hair cloaked her sex. I had heard men gossip over pipes and ale, naming the peasant girls, pronouncing judgement on the qualities which proclaimed that this or that maid would make the perfect wife and bear a dozen children.

  I thought of Helena’s slender arms, tiny wrists, long neck. Her bulging belly made her seem more fragile still. This woman and my wife did not belong to the same species. They might have come from different worlds. This girl was a big, strong physical presence, even in death. I put all thoughts of Helena aside, and tried to think of nothing but the woman stretched out on the table.

  There were no open wounds on the body with the exception of some half-healed nicks on her hands and arms. She had cut herself while working, probably. Like a priest preparing for the Holy Communion, I put on a pair of thin kid gloves which I took from my pocket. Beginning with the arms, moving over the hips, I continued down along the legs, applying pressure with my fingers as I went, searching for broken bones, producing a volley of light cracks as I tested the joints.

  ‘Rigor makes the joints stiff,’ I murmured. ‘So far, she appears to be uninjured.’

  Placing one hand over the other, I pressed down hard at various points along both sides of her ribcage, then over the sternum and the breastbone.

  No sounds came at all.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Apart from the visible damage to her face.’

  The colonel watched suspiciously as I removed my gloves and reached for my shoulder-bag. I took out my drawing-album, and released a piece of graphite from the narrow silver tube that Helena had given me several years before for my birthday.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to sketch her,’ I said. ‘The corpse will rot. She must be buried soon.’

  ‘What’s the point? Will anyone want a picture to recall her by? In this state . . .’

  ‘The sketch is for my own use,’ I explained. ‘I will need to remember her as she is. Professor Kant . . . my maestro maintained that the exact physical details of every crime are revealing, especially if comparisons are called for. There may be others . . .’

  ‘I hope there won’t be!’ he exclaimed sarcastically. ‘You are here to prevent it from happening again.’

  I did not speak, I was busy moving the graphite point over the paper.

  ‘The killer went to work on the face,’ he said, pointing to her forehead. ‘When I first saw her, I thought that she had fallen from a great height. A heap of bones was found further down the coast shortly before I arrived. Another amber collector, they say, who fell off a cliff. But there was no cliff near the spot where this one was discovered.’

  ‘This one?’ I repeated coldly. ‘Do you mean Katiuscka Rodendahl?’

  Were all Prussian women nameless in his eyes?

  ‘This one here,’ he confirmed. ‘No rock did that.’

  I nodded, continuing with my
work, finishing my sketch of the profile of her brow, her fractured nose, and the jagged contour of the unnatural cavity below. As I worked, I wondered about the shape of the part that was missing.

  ‘Was she married?’ I asked.

  ‘None of the girls . . .’ les Halles began to say, but then he stopped. ‘There are no Prussian men inside the camp. Not one, except for yourself.’

  ‘Was she naked when found?’ I asked him next.

  ‘Not a stitch of clothing on her.’

  ‘Did you examine her back and shoulders?’

  ‘Not a mark. No wound. Nothing, except for the damage to her face.’

  ‘Did you find her yourself?’

  That question provoked a laugh. ‘Do you see me as a man with time to stroll along the seashore, Herr Stiffeniis? I’ve been here four months, and I have hardly had the time to take a piss! She was found by one of my men.’

  ‘What is the name of the soldier?’

  ‘Pierre Grillet,’ he hissed, as if reluctant to reveal so little.

  ‘What sort of a man is he?’

  ‘First-rate.’

  His answers were becoming shorter, as if he resented being questioned. The fact that I was a Prussian, a civilian, and a magistrate who threatened to block his schemes, went ill with him, I suppose.

  ‘May I speak with him?’ I asked carefully.

  The colonel was silent for a moment.

  ‘My men work very hard. Most of them will be sleeping. You can have a word tomorrow morning,’ he conceded finally. ‘I’ll send him to you.’

  I thanked him, wondering at the same time whether concern for his men and their sleep, or a reluctance to allow what I asked, had inspired his answer.

  I put my album away, picked up the hanging shroud, and was about to cover the body again, but the left hand of les Halles shot out and seized my wrist.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ he said, separating his words like a teacher telling off a boy who has been too bold.

  ‘This body has been deprived of every dignity,’ I said. ‘I see no reason for her to go naked into the ground.’

  ‘You have not done yet, monsieur,’ he said roughly, pushing my hand away.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Did I need to explain to him what must be obvious to any man with eyes? ‘This woman was killed by blows to the head. The lower half of her face has been ransacked by a maniac. This corpse can tell us nothing more.’

  ‘I know why she was killed,’ he snapped back. ‘I know who did it. I cannot put my finger on the man, but I can point you in the right direction. This body will confirm what I am about to say.’

  He raised his hand to hush me.

  ‘She was trafficking in stolen amber,’ he pressed on. ‘She was murdered for it. Instead of paying what she asked, the smuggler struck her down and took it for free. She spoke out of turn, perhaps. She may have threatened to give his name to me. He made an example of her. A warning to all the other amber-girls. Keep your mouths shut. That was the message. That is the path you must follow. The illegal trade in stolen amber. Prussian thieves and smugglers . . .’

  ‘General Malaport did not tell me you had solved the case,’ I interrupted. ‘Why did he bother to send for me?’

  Irony was alien to les Halles, it seemed.

  ‘I can tell you that, monsieur,’ he replied assuredly. ‘The coffers of the army are low. Now, Spain is stretching our resources. A drawn-out war in a poor country costs vast amounts of money. That’s where Prussian amber comes into the equation. Nordcopp will yield ten times as much to us as it ever did to you.’

  ‘I do not see your point,’ I objected.

  ‘There’s one small problem,’ he nodded at the corpse on the table. ‘A Prussian slut has been murdered, and diplomacy dictates that a Prussian magistrate should examine the case. We want nothing to do with the business.’

  ‘A Prussian slut?’ I repeated his phrase slowly, as if savouring the words. ‘So much for French diplomacy.’

  ‘Don’t bandy morals with me,’ he snarled. ‘I was not born a colonel in the emperor’s engineers. My words are rough, my thinking rougher. I know the tricks of the poor. They steal a silver thimble and swallow it, knowing that they’ll shit it out in a day or two. Amber is a jewel, and a stomach is a bank-vault. Open her up, Herr Procurator Stiffeniis, and see what’s in her entrails. And while you’re about it, stick your finger into every hole that you can think of. If I were you, I’d put my gloves back on.’

  That night, I perpetrated the final indignity on the corpse of Kati Rodendahl.

  The search did not prove fruitless.

  8

  A NOISE DISTURBED my sleep.

  A dull blow repeated at regular intervals.

  A bludgeon beating me slowly into consciousness.

  I listened in the darkness of the empty hut.

  An echoing thump, the drawn-out rattle of chains, a brief pregnant pause, a teeth-clenching rasp of metal sliding on metal, then another resounding thump. I might have been in Paris once again, watching public executions from the foot of the guillotine in the Place de la Révolution, but no coarse cheers went up as another once-noble head fell into the waiting wicker basket. Instead, the chains began to jingle and clank, metal sheared once more, and that thump pounded out again.

  I sat up, felt around for my boots in the darkness. The leather was cold to my touch, slick with damp. A jolt of pain racked my shoulder as I stood up stiffly. I had not undressed the night before, but slept in the clothes I had worn all day. I did not need to drag myself from any warm cocoon; I was already wearing it.

  I unlatched the door and stepped outside.

  The sharp chill of the early morning was unexpected.

  A dense white fog rolled in off the sea.

  Instinctively, I slipped my hands into my pockets.

  My fingers closed around the piece of amber that I had removed from the mutilated corpse the night before. I held the nugget up, recalling last night’s labour in all its horror. Though diabolical, the colonel’s intuition had been correct. The dead girl had hidden a stolen piece of amber about her body. She had tucked it deep inside her sex. Larger than a plum, even I could see that the stone was valuable. It was a ravishing gold colour, as if it had been cleaned and polished, with darker veins of red threading through it.

  More surprising still was what that piece contained.

  A female wasp in the act of laying her eggs. A stream of tiny bubbles squirted from its tail like the trail of a shooting star. The insect was large, its thorax swollen. Each detail of its body and wings was as perfect as the day that it had died. Its front legs pushed forward, as if it had been seeking desperately to break free from the dripping resin that had fixed and drowned it.

  Had a thousand years gone by?

  More, perhaps?

  Scientists in Prussia and abroad had recently begun to study amber, claiming that God’s Creation might be better understood by examining the plants and creatures which it contained, claiming, indeed, that the Garden of Eden itself had once existed somewhere on our Prussian shores.

  The memory of the insects in my garden returned to mind.

  Flies, ants, beetles, attacking and devouring anything that could be eaten. I did not pretend to be a man of science, yet there seemed to me to be nothing which distinguished those living insects from the creature trapped inside that piece of amber. That wasp could be dated to the birth of the world, they said. Insects had survived for aeons. Like us, they had persevered. And yet, I thought, insects had no visible conscience, showed no mercy. Eat, or be eaten, that was the law of Nature. They had consumed the corpse of every creature born since Adam and Eve.

  A cold shiver ran across my shoulders.

  Would they persist when I—when we—had turned to long-forgotten dust?

  I shook these strange ideas from my head. I had a case to solve. I must begin by establishing the facts. Had the girl been murdered as she tried to smuggle her treasure away from the coast, as Colonel les Hall
es believed?

  He had shown me the death certificate the night before.

  Naked body of a woman found on Nordcopp shore. Aged thirty, give or take a year or two. Deceased as a result of blows to the head. Whether accidental or intentional remains unclear. Grave damage to the face inhibits easy identification. Savaged by animals after death?

  Signed & sworn, this day, 11th August 1808.

  The report was written in French. It had been signed with an illegible scrawl by the company doctor.

  Here was another source of information.

  A brief note had been added in the same hand, identifying Kati Rodendahl as one of the amber-workers from the camp.

  I let the piece of amber slide back into the safety of my pocket.

  ‘It is evidence,’ I had insisted. ‘It may prove useful.’

  ‘Keep it safe,’ les Halles had warned me, giving in at last, reluctantly allowing me to carry it away with me. ‘That piece of amber was stolen from us. It belongs to France.’

  A narrow plank walkway linked the seven huts which stood on the crest of the dunes. Somewhere below was the beach. I could hear the sound of waves. I was fifty yards away from the waterline, though I did not know it. The dense white fog shrouded the scene that would, otherwise, have presented itself to my sight. All was still and silent, except for that endless sequence of repeated sounds: the rattling of chains, the shriek of metal, the concluding thump.

  Far out to sea, the fog merged with the grey waters of the Baltic Sea. It was impossible to say where one began and the other ended. Further out, however, I could see a silhouetted gold-edged horizon, and I caught a glimpse of a sail—a fishing-boat?—a mere flash of white in the far distance. Suddenly, a bar of pink shot into the sky. Other bars shot off at different angles as the sun floated gently upwards like a wedge of honey-coloured amber. It had no more power to heat the world than the glimmering stub of a distant candle. And where the weak light could not penetrate, the sky above the fog was dark blue, shimmering into coal-black.

  The noise did not cease.

  Somebody was already hard at work.