I have urgent need of
your skills. Come quickly.
The sheriff’s typical scrawl seemed more hurried than usual
due to the brevity of the note; and the impression of the seal was faint and
blurred as if pressed only fleetingly to the wax surface. Surgeon Matthew
Harker clasped a coin tightly between his dexterous long fingers until the
messenger had provided him with the correct direction. Quickly dispensing with any
plans that he had formulated for the day ahead Harker grabbed the bag which
hung ever ready by the door, filled with the tools and instruments of his
trade. His solitary existence, with the refusal to even employ a servant, meant
that he was always prepared and able to respond with haste to the demands of
patients at all hours. There was, however, only one reason why the sheriff
would have sent such a message. There had been a murder.
Harker was closing the door behind him within moments of the
note’s arrival. This was, after all, not the first time that Simon Rowntree had
called upon his services. There had been cases in the past when the sheriff had
consulted the surgeon’s intimate knowledge of anatomy, which had been gleaned
from the controversial and virtually heretical universities of southern Europe.
Generally feared and despised for this dark knowledge, Harker’s expertises were
at least valued by Rowntree, particularly when they were used to help apprehend
murderers and villains. It was only Rowntree though who wondered at the surgeon’s
own private reasons for offering this assistance. Most others assumed he took
some unholy pleasure in pawing over the bodies of the recently deceased.
Even now as he strode through the winding streets people
drew back from him, retreating to the safe proximity of their homes. The length
of his cloak flapped and snarled sharply behind him, his imposing figure
swathed entirely in black. He might have been tall and dark, but his features
were arranged in too unpleasant an expression to ever be considered handsome. Harker
was aware that others considered his soul to be as black as his scowling brow
and fierce temper. Whilst there was a grudging recognition of his medical
proficiency, it was commonly acknowledged that this was owing to a deal which he
had struck with the devil’s winged minions. Through recent accusations of heresy and
necromancy, it had been only his friendship with the sheriff that saved the surgeon
from a close experience with the gallows.
It was merely a short walk to where the sheriff awaited him.
The sun was bright in the clear morning sky, seemingly incongruous with Harker’s
mission and what he imagined awaited him. Nodding curtly to the soldiers who
guarded the passageway that gave entrance to the street, they eyed him uneasily
as he brushed past. Immediately the surgeon noted that the body had not been
hidden, aside from the natural seclusion offered by a back street which few
persons dared to enter after dark. This brazen display offered to a curious
onlooker was perhaps the most revealing detail of the killer’s character. The
sheriff stood some distance away from the body. His fair hair pushed back
from his forehead by a shaking hand, and his usually placid features were
ragged and pale.
As Harker neared the body he understood what had upset his
normally composed friend. Crouching beside the deceased his intense gaze and
steady fingers catalogued and considered what he saw before him. She had been
young, for he observed that her bones and limbs had not grown to their full
potential. Perhaps once she might even have been beautiful, but the rigour of death
had stolen the lively flash of a smile and the delicate hue from her cheeks. Death
had, however, been even crueller to her than most. Her neck and face were grossly
disfigured rendering her unidentifiable. Her skirts had been equally ripped and
tattered, flung high above her waist, and revealing to the surgeon how she had
been cruelly misused.
Collecting up his instruments Harker crossed to where the
sheriff had provided the requested pail of water. As he submerged the tarnished
metal objects Rowntree stepped towards him, a hand pressed to his mouth as if
to stop himself choking on his disgust. His own daughter was barely a year old.
“What kind of monster could do this?” He demanded weakly in
a strangled voice. The surgeon froze, his gaze darkening as he replied.
“It is what you still fail to grasp. Men are the monsters. Each
one of us has this capacity for violence within us.” As a man who had long ago
discovered his own capacity for violence, Harker was much more intimately
acquainted with the mind of their murderer than his friend. “Who found her?” He
asked brusquely, dunking his tools abruptly back into the water.
“One of my soldiers.
I had commissioned several of the men to look out for a missing girl.
Unfortunately it seems that they found her.” Rowntree was unable to look
towards the body sprawled so deliberately across the ground.
“You believe this is the girl you were searching for?”
“I hoped you’d be able to tell me. Her face is so...” He
swallowed convulsively, unable to articulate the brutality which had been
inflicted. “Sibyl, the goldsmith’s daughter, went missing last night. She was
last seen with a young man heading towards the river in the early evening. At
least we know we have a suspect.” Harker frowned as he considered the evidence he
had gathered from his examination.
“That is not the girl you are seeking.”
“But it has to be.” The sheriff argued in dismay. “She
fits perfectly with the description of the missing girl. She is the same height and
age.”
“She has been deceased for longer than your girl has been
missing. This is someone else. Have there been any other reports of missing
girls in the past week?”
“Can it be a coincidence that two girls, identical in looks,
went missing around the same time?” The surgeon sounded trouble when finally he
responded.
“I fear you will not like my answer.”
No comments:
Post a Comment