George Mann - The Executioner's heart

So much for the frilly shirts and the glory days of old.

Bainbridge laughed at himself. He was grumpy at having to haul himself from his bed at so unsociable an hour. This, of course, was nothing new to such a seasoned man of the Yard, but he was presently nursing a thick head, the result of a late night spent drinking port and conversing with a government man, Professor Archibald Angelchrist. He and Angelchrist had been meeting regularly over the last six months, ever since the beginning of Bainbridge’s association with the Secret Service. Angelchrist worked as an advisor to the government in some capacity, chiefly pertaining, Bainbridge had gathered, to matters of a scientific bent. He was a good man, but-as Bainbridge had discovered, to his detriment-Angelchrist liked his liquor. He hoped, perhaps a little unkindly, that Angelchrist was currently suffering as much as he was, but then he remembered the time and realised the other man would most likely still be tucked up snugly in his bed. Just as, if there was any justice left in the world, Bainbridge himself would have been.

He stood for a moment longer, leaning heavily on his cane and staring blankly into the cold grate of the fire. He was growing impatient. Had the constable failed to inform Foulkes that he was here?

He was just about to set out in search of the man, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and turned to see Foulkes striding briskly across the room towards him. He was wearing a harried expression and looked deathly tired. Well, that made two of them, then.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. I was taking steps to secure the scene, as per your instructions. Nothing has been moved.” Foulkes tugged at his dark, bushy beard and stared at Bainbridge expectantly.

Bainbridge had always liked Foulkes. He spoke his mind and wasn’t afraid of the consequences. There were few men like that in the force these days, and although his frankness had probably stifled his progress through the ranks in some ways, it made him a better policeman, and far more useful to Bainbridge than the many yes men who typically plagued his days.

“Morning, Foulkes,” he said, wearily. He already knew what to expect, but he raised a questioning eyebrow anyway. “Well?”

Foulkes nodded. “It’s exactly the same, sir. Same as all the others.” He pulled a disconcerted face and lowered his voice, as if concerned that someone might overhear his familiarity with the chief inspector. “It’s a ruddy great mess in there. There’s blood everywhere.”

Bainbridge tried to keep his grimace to himself. “They took it again?”

“Yes. It’s nowhere to be found. Ripped the chest right open and tore it out, just like the others. It’s bloody disgusting.”

“Quite literally,” said Bainbridge, drily. “Alright, show me the way.”

“She’s in the library,” said Foulkes, gesturing back the way he had come. “Made a terrible mess of the books.”

Bainbridge wasn’t sure whether Foulkes was being sarcastic or not, but he let it wash over him regardless. Foulkes was most likely as aggrieved as he was at being dragged from his bed into the cold and dark. And, to add insult to injury, both of them knew there was a long day full of questions ahead.

Resignedly, Bainbridge trudged after Foulkes, deeper into the big house, on towards the grim scene that awaited them in the dusty stacks of the library.

* * *

The scene itself was just as Foulkes had described. Worse, in fact. It was as if Bainbridge had suddenly found himself in an abattoir rather than a library. There were spatters of blood everywhere , as if the killer had made it their sole purpose to ensure that no surface remained untouched by the crimson rain they had unleashed. The stench was foul, too; cloying and thick, it made the air seem humid, metallic, and uncomfortable to breathe. Bainbridge felt his stomach turn and fought the urge to vomit.

If anything, the scene here was even more atrocious than the previous two. It was somehow more flamboyant, more grotesque, as if the killer was showing off. There was certainly something theatrical in the manner in which the body was positioned behind the desk.

Bainbridge inched into the room, taking care to avoid the puddles of blood on the paisley carpet-more because he didn’t wish to get his shoes dirty than because he was concerned with preserving the murder scene. It was already obvious what had happened here, and if the prior murders were anything to go by, no amount of tiptoeing around the spilled blood was going to help shed any light.

The room was exactly how Bainbridge imagined a library in a posh London town house should look. Row after row of towering oak bookcases were crammed into every available space, their innards stuffed with serried ranks of musty, leather-bound tomes. A large globe sat in its mount in one corner, a stag’s head glared down at him balefully with its beady glass eyes, and a large, antique writing desk with a burgundy leather surface dominated the centre of the room. Beside it, a captain’s chair had been overturned and sheaves of paper spilled across the floor in a stark white avalanche, covered with scratchy black script, as if the pages were home to an army of scurrying ants.

So, the dead woman had put up a fight. That was interesting. That was different.

From the doorway, Bainbridge could see nothing of the dead woman save for one of her hands, jutting out from behind the desk as if beckoning for help that had never arrived. The skin was pale, papery and wizened, the hand of someone who had lived, who had seen life. Bainbridge could see little flecks of blood upon the fingers, like ladybirds on a clutch of white lilies.

He rounded the desk, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell. The woman lay sprawled upon the carpet in a pose that might have been comical if it hadn’t been for the expression of sheer terror that contorted her face, and the fact that her rib cage had been cracked and splayed open to reveal her internal organs. She was still wearing her skirt, stockings, and shoes, as well as most of her jewellery, but her top half had been stripped naked, exposing her milky-white breasts and her ample belly.

The killer had made an incision at the base of her throat, cutting deeply into bone, gristle, and cartilage, as well as severing a line of pearls, the constituents of which now lay scattered around the body like miniature planets in orbit around a floundering giant. Many of them now nestled in congealing puddles of blood, dulled and strangely obscene amongst the carnage.

The incision continued down to the belly, where it terminated abruptly above the navel. The rib cage had been pulled open like two halves of a cantilever bridge, or two hands of splayed, skeletal fingers clutching unsuccessfully for one another. This, too, was just like the others, and Bainbridge was still no clearer about what kind of cutting device had been used to hack through the bone.

Around the corpse, dark, glistening blood described two distinct leaf shapes, like crimson wings beneath the woman’s out-flung arms. The nearest bookcase had taken the brunt of the arterial spray, and even now some of the spines were still dripping ponderously, their titles obscured, their authors rendered anonymous by the bloodshed.

The woman had been in her late fifties, Bainbridge judged, although he’d have to take steps to confirm that in the coming hours. She looked in good health-putting aside the gaping rent in her chest for a moment-and she had a full, stocky figure, suggesting she was well accustomed to fine dining. It was clear from the property that the woman’s family had once been well-to-do: The lavish interior decor, the ancient portraiture, the well-appointed library were all indicators that the family had once rubbed shoulders with the upper classes. There were signs, however, that the woman had recently fallen on harder times. There were no servants, for a start, and anything more than a cursory glance at the furnishings betrayed the fact that they were mostly nothing but threadbare relics of a more affluent time.