George Mann - The Executioner's heart

“Yes. We’re wondering if there’s any ritualistic or occult significance,” said Bainbridge. There was a tinge of hopefulness-even desperation-in his tone. Veronica felt for him. It was an awful job, and an even more awful responsibility, to be the one accountable for bringing the killer to justice. More so, for explaining to the victims’ families exactly why their loved ones had been so brutally executed.

“Where were they found?” asked Newbury, circling the grisly diorama, drinking in the facts. “Indoors, evidently.”

“In their own homes,” Bainbridge confirmed. “The first one, the young man, here, had been dumped in his bathtub for the servants to find the next morning. The makeshift surgery had clearly been performed in the same bathroom, too; the walls had pretty much been redecorated with the poor bastard’s blood.” He sighed heavily as he moved round to stand over the corpse of the older man. “This chap, Mr. Geoffrey Evans, was found in his kitchen by his wife, who woke up in the middle of the night, realised he wasn’t there beside her, and went downstairs to look for him. He was spread out on the tiles in a sea of his own blood. And this last woman was discovered by her maid this morning on the floor of her expensive library. This one’s slightly different, though. The victim clearly put up a fight. There were signs of a struggle at the scene, and you can see the wounds on her forearms where she raised them in self-defence.”

Newbury lifted the woman’s right arm and studied the crisscross pattern of gashes. “It looks as if the killer came at her with a long-bladed knife,” he said.

Bainbridge nodded.

“You mentioned the occult. Did you find anything at the scenes that might suggest as much? Any symbols marked out in chalk? Icons drawn in the spilt blood? Tatters of paper covered in strange runes and secreted upon the bodies?”

“No,” Bainbridge admitted. “No, none of that. I only thought there might be some significance behind the removal of their hearts.”

“So you have no motive, and nothing to connect the victims?” Newbury was chewing on his bottom lip, lost in thought.

“Nothing. The only thing I’m sure about is that it’s the work of the same killer,” replied Bainbridge.

“Well, you’re right about that. You can tell from these wounds that the victims were all hacked open with the same implement, cutting through the breastbone in the same direction. But why? Why would the killer take their hearts?” He tapped his foot in frustration, as if that might be enough to conjure up an answer.

Bainbridge sighed. “I was rather hoping you were going to tell me that,” he said, resignedly.

Newbury looked up from the corpse of the woman. “Well, I don’t think there’s a particular occult ritual being performed here, or at least not one that I’m aware of, but there’s definitely something ritualistic about the manner in which they all had their hearts removed. It may look like a crude job, but whoever did this took real care over the removal of the organs themselves. Yes, they’ve hacked open the chest cavities in a rather barbaric fashion, but they’ve shown a strange sort of respect for the hearts they were stealing.”

“Almost as if they wanted them for something else?” said Veronica from behind her handkerchief.

“Absolutely that,” replied Newbury, glancing at her. “Although for what, I’m not at all sure.”

“Witchcraft?” asked Bainbridge. “Some Godforsaken nonsense involving human sacrifice and dancing in the woods? Isn’t that usually the way? I thought it might have something to do with that cabal, the ‘horny beasts’ or whatever it was they called themselves.”

“The Cabal of the Horned Beast,” interjected Veronica, trying not to laugh.

The three of them-Veronica, Newbury, and Bainbridge-had encountered members of this strange devil-worshipping cult just a few months earlier. Newbury had liberated a rare book of rituals from them, from which he derived his unusual treatment for Veronica’s sister, Amelia. As an act of reprisal, the cultists had taken Newbury and Bainbridge prisoner. Veronica had been forced to mount a rescue, posing as a cultist and battling one of their abysmal half man, half machine creations to gain entry to the manor house in which they’d established their lair.

Newbury sighed. “I only wish the world were that simplistic, Charles,” he said, sadly.

“Or perhaps the killer is reusing the organs, like those automatons with the ‘affinity bridges’ in their craniums. Could the killer be using them to power some sort of infernal machine?” Bainbridge continued, hopefully.

“It’s all possible, Charles,” said Newbury, “but at present I have no means of even theorising. There’s simply not enough information to go on.”

“There are three corpses!” protested Bainbridge. “How much information do you need? Have you even examined them properly?”

Newbury shrugged. “Context is everything. I need to see the victims in situ. If there was anything more to be gleaned from the manner of their deaths, it was lost the moment they were moved. You know that, Charles. There’s nothing else for me to see here. Sometimes a corpse is enough. This time … well, I’m afraid not.”

Bainbridge’s shoulders dropped as he recognised the truth in Newbury’s words. “Then there’s very little we can do. We’ll have to wait to see if the killer strikes again.”

“I fear so,” said Newbury. “I can carry out some research, and I can speak to Aldous Renwick in the hope that we can find some significance behind the missing hearts. Otherwise, we’re impotent until the killer shows their hand. I wish I could offer you more, but I have nothing. Not yet.”

Bainbridge gave a curt nod. He was clearly frustrated, although it was clear he didn’t blame Newbury for being unable to offer up a neat solution.

“Would it help if you were to visit the scene of the most recent murder?” offered Angelchrist, who’d otherwise remained silent throughout the proceedings.

“Perhaps,” said Newbury. “It really depends on how much has already been disturbed.” He glanced at Bainbridge questioningly.

Bainbridge shook his head. “They’ve already started to clean up. The place was a terrible mess. Abominable. I’d never have imagined so much blood could have been contained in a single human body.” He issued a long, heartfelt sigh. “You’ll talk to Aldous, then?”

“I will,” replied Newbury. “If there’s anyone who can find a ritual involving human hearts, it’s Aldous. It may take him some time, however. And it may come to nothing. We don’t know yet that there is any occult or ritual significance to the theft. It may simply be an obscene fetish that’s driving the killer to act as he is, taking trophies from his victims for his own gratification.”

“Let us hope you’re wrong,” said Angelchrist, darkly. “Otherwise we have even less to go on than we thought.”

The four of them stood in silence for a moment, as if weighing the implications of Angelchrist’s words. A killer with no motives other than simple self-gratification. A murderer who chose his victims at random, leaving no clear pattern behind, no evidence besides a brutalised corpse without a heart. Veronica knew it would be like searching for a needle in a proverbial haystack.

“I’ll send word to Aldous as a matter of urgency,” said Newbury, coming around from behind the trestle table that bore the corpse of the woman. He looked to Veronica. “First of all, however, I have some business I must attend to with Miss Hobbes.”

“My thanks to you, Newbury,” said Bainbridge. “I feel as if our chances of success have improved tenfold, simply by virtue of having your assistance. It’s been too long.” He patted Newbury on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”