Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"Actually, statistically speaking, it's amazing that something like this didn't happen before," said Pierre Danelle, the principal of the college and a man Fitzduane found it hard to warm to.

"All the students at Draker are normally so happy," said the deputy principal. He was a Danelle clone.

The inquest took less than an hour. Sergeant Tommy Keane drove Fitzduane to the two-centuries-old granite courthouse where it was held. In the trunk of the sergeant's car was fishing tackle, a child's doll – and a length of thin blue rope culminating in a noose stained with brownish marks. Fitzduane found this juxtaposition of domesticity and death bizarre.

During the inquest Fitzduane was struck, by the one emotion that seemed to grip everyone present: the desire to get the whole wretched business over and done with.

Fitzduane gave his evidence. The pathologist gave his evidence. Tommy Keane gave and produced his evidence. The principal of the college and some students were called. One of the students, a pretty, chubby-faced blonde with a halo of golden curls, whose name was Toni Hoffman, had been particularly close to Rudi. She cried. No one, in Fitzduane's opinion, advanced any credible reason why Rudi had killed himself, and cross-examination was minimal. Fitzduane had the feeling they were in a race to beat the clock.

The coroner found that the hanged man had been properly identified and was indeed Rudolf von Graffenlaub. He had died as a result of hanging himself from a tree. It was known he was of a serious disposition, prone to be moody, and had been upset by ‘world problems.’ His parents, who were not present, were offered the condolences of the court. The word suicide – for legal reasons, Fitzduane gathered – was never mentioned.

As they drove back in the car, Sergeant Keane spoke. "You expected more, didn't you, Hugo?"

"I think I did," said Fitzduane. "It was all so rushed."

"That's the way these things normally are," said Keane. "It makes the whole affair easier for all concerned. A few little white lies like saying the lad died instantly do nobody any harm."

"Didn't he?"

"Lord, no," said the sergeant. "It wasn't read out in open court, of course, but the truth is the lad strangled to death. Dr. Buckley estimated it took at least four or five minutes, but it could have been longer – quite a bit longer."

They drove on in silence. Fitzduane wondered if the blue rope was still in the trunk.

The duty lieutenant came into Kilmara's office. He was looking, Kilmara thought, distinctly green about the gills.

"You asked to be informed of any developments on Fitzduane's Island, colonel?"

Kilmara nodded.

"We've had a call from the local police superintendent," said the lieutenant. "There's been another hanging at Draker." He looked down at his clipboard. "The victim was an eighteen-year-old Swiss female, one Toni Hoffman – apparently a close friend of Rudolf von Graffenlaub. No question of foul play. She left a note." He paused and swallowed.

Kilmara raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"It's sick, Colonel," said the lieutenant. "Apparently she did it in front of the whole school. They have an assembly hall. Just when all the faculty and students had gathered, there was a shout from the balcony at the back of the hall. When they turned, the girl was standing on the gallery rail with a rope around her neck. When she saw everyone was looking, she jumped. I gather it was very messy. Her head just about came off."

Did she say anything before she jumped?" said Kilmara.

"She shouted, ‘Remember Rudi,’" said the lieutenant.

Kilmara raised the other eyebrow. "I expect we shall," he said dryly. He dismissed the lieutenant. "Obviously a young lady with a theatrical bent," he said to Gunther.

Gunther shrugged. "Poor girl," he said. "What else can one say? It sounds like a classic copycat suicide. One suicide in a group has a tendency to spark off others. Many coroners think that's one good reason why suicides shouldn't be reported."

Kilmara gave a shudder. "Ugh," he said. "This is gloomy stuff. Until our green lieutenant came in with the tidings, I was geared to go home early and bathe the twins."

"And now?" said Gunther.

Kilmara waited a beat and grinned. "I'm going to go home early and bathe the twins," he said. He put on his coat, checked his personal weapons, and slid down the specially installed fireman's pole to the underground garage. He'd tell Fitzduane about this second hanging tomorrow. Hugo would have to get by on one hanging this night.

He was unmercifully splashed by the twins.

The city of Cork, Ireland's second largest, had been sacked, burned, pillaged, looted, and destroyed so often since its foundation in the sixth century by St. Finbar that it now seemed laid out with the primary objective of stopping any invader in his tracks.

Its traffic problem was impressive in its turgid complexity, and on a dark, wet March evening it had reached a pinnacle of congestion that was a tribute to the ingenuity of its corporation's planning committee.

Fitzduane had a manic private theory that the reason the city's population had expanded was that none of the inhabitants could get out, and so they stayed and became traders or lawyers or pregnant or both and conversed in a strange singsong that sounded to the uninitiated like a form of Chinese but was, in fact, the Cork accent.

Fitzduane actually quite liked Cork, but he could never understand how a city that stood astride only one river could have so many bridges – all, apparently, going the wrong way. In addition, there seemed to be more bridges than during his last visit, and some seemed to be in different locations. Maybe they were designed to move secretly in the dead of night. Maybe the reason the British had burned the city – yet again – in 1921 was just to find a parking space.

He was agreeably surprised when the SouthInfirmaryHospital loomed through the sleet.

Fitzduane transferred the slides of the hanging to the circular magazine of a Kodak Carousel projector and switched it on.

The screen was suddenly brilliant white in the small office. He pressed the advance button. There was a click and a whir and a click. The white of the screen was replaced by a blur of color. He adjusted the zoom lens and the focus, and the face of the hanged boy, much enlarged, came sharply into view.

Buckley held an illuminated pointer in his hand, and from time to time, as the slides clicked and whirred and clicked, he would point out a feature with the small arrow of light.

"Of course," said the pathologist, "I didn't see the locus -the place it actually happened – so these slides of yours help. They should really have been handed in to me before the inquest, but no matter.

"Now, under our system, the decision as to whether the pathologist sees the deceased at the locus depends on the police. If they have any reason to be suspicious, the body is not disturbed in any way until the fullest investigations are carried out. In this particular case the sergeant used his judgment. A youth was involved, and his death occurred on the grounds of his own college. A very fraught situation, and the sight of a victim of hanging can be quite traumatic, as you know. There were no signs of foul play, and the sergeant knew that hanging almost invariably means suicide. There was also the matter of determining that the lad was actually dead. All these factors encouraged the sergeant to take the view that he should cut down the deceased immediately, and I have to say that it is my belief that he acted correctly."

Fitzduane looked at the grimacing figure on the screen. He had an impulse to wipe away the blood and mucus that so disfigured the face. He tried to make his voice sound detached as he spoke. "He must have been dead, surely. I checked his pulse when I found him, and there was nothing – and just look at him."