Gordon Dahlquist - The Dark Volume

“What did she say?”

“One of the village boats has been missing since the storm. They fear the man is dead.”

“They say this now ? Has he no family?”

“No. And apparently this fellow sailed alone.”

Svenson said nothing—again, knowing he should mention the grooms, the blue stains. Instead, as the silence grew, his eyes now adjusted to the dark, he realized she was quite lost in thought.

“I am appalled at myself,” he said. “I have never asked—of course I know you were married. Do you have children, Elöise?”

She shook her head, smiling away both the question and his concern. “I do not. My husband died soon after our marriage.”

“What was his profession?”

“He was a soldier. I thought you knew.”

Svenson shook his head.

“It was a very long time ago,” said Elöise. “I scarcely remember the girl I must have been—in truth, I recall him even less. A dear boy. He did not seem a boy at the time. We knew so very little.” Elöise paused, and then spoke rather carefully. “This woman you mentioned… your cousin…”

“Corinna,” said Svenson.

“Your silver case. The engraving on it— ‘vom CS’—Corinna Svenson?”

“You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” said Elöise. “Miss Temple had wondered who it was from.”

“A gift upon my last promotion.”

She smiled. He sighed, then knowing it was wrong, plunged ahead. “I have wanted to say—perhaps I can help you—to discover what you remember, what you do not—”

She shook her head quickly. “I'm sure it is impossible.”

“But—this other man—”

“I cannot speak of it.”

“But—Elöise—you are a grown woman—a respectable widow—”

She looked away from him. His words faltered.

“But you and I…” Svenson could not find the words. “At Tarr Manor, did we not…”

He stopped.

“I am a fool.” Her face was hard, but her eyes stricken. “You saved my life. But at times, so many times, I think I should have died.”

She stood and walked without another word into the room she shared with Bette.

THE NEXT morning, the fisherman's boat was found. It lay on its side, flung onto the line of sharp black rocks as if by a disdainful child, the mast snapped and the tattered, dragging sails half buried in the sand. Three men were there to meet them—the same men who had been at the stable—their expressions visibly colder and more grim. As he nodded in greeting—no man offered his hand—Svenson frowned to see that one of the fishermen now wore a well-kept pair of leather riding boots.

The man saw his gaze and redirected the Doctor's attention with a thrust of his unshaven chin. The body had been placed, as if sitting upright, on one of the angled benches that spanned the width of the boat.

“A moment first,” said Svenson, and he climbed past the corpse, over the skewed gunwale, to the cabin, poking his head into the dim little chamber.

The cabin's contents had been thrown to the floor and sent into a pile with the vessel's tilt. The floorboards were still damp but the upper walls had not been submerged. The one small window bore a spattered line of reddish brown, and a patient search revealed another half-dozen drips and flecks. Svenson rooted through the littered debris without any particular expectation, and found nothing.

He stepped back to the tilting deck. Sorge stood with the other men, some several yards farther away, as if they had sought to speak without Svenson overhearing. As the Doctor knelt to examine the corpse, their scrutiny was palpable on the back of his neck.

The fisherman's throat had been gashed, ear to ear and more than once, but the repeated strokes had not carved the same cavity seen on the bodies at the stable.

“Are those from… claws?” Sorge leaned forward, pointing.

“Or teeth ?” called one of the others.

“Or is it a knife ?” called the man with boots.

Svenson calmly indicated the empty sheath at the fisherman's belt. “Did anyone find his knife?”

They had not. Svenson returned to the corpse, delicately holding the head and moving it in his hands to better see the overlapping incisions. He stood and faced the fishermen, picking his words carefully.

“No doubt you can read these signs for yourselves. The weapon was likely a short, squat blade.”

“Do you know how long he's been dead?” asked Sorge.

“My guess would be two days. During the storm. Is it strange he should be found only now?”

“It was the flooding,” said the booted man, gesturing back toward the town. “The land was flooded four feet this last half mile.”

The men all stared at Svenson, as if this comment required his answer.

“The stables,” said Sorge, awkwardly. “The stables are on the other side of the village, to the south. These waters have only just receded…”

“Quite impassable,” the booted man spat. “Since the storm.”

Svenson felt his heart sink like a stone. Whoever slew this man could not possibly be to blame for the two dead grooms and the scattered horses.

“So… more than one wolf?” muttered Sorge.

HE FOUND Elöise alone in Miss Temple's room. He spoke quickly—the grooms, the fisherman, the flooding, the unrest in the village.

“What can we do?” she asked.

He had not yet mentioned the blue stains, nor the villager's new boots.

“Something has happened. Something they will not tell me.”

“Have they killed Chang?”

“I do not know. I cannot think so—”

A knock came on the door, and Svenson quickly sat next to Miss Temple, taking her wrist just as Sorge entered, nodding an apology for intruding, but asking if he might have a word with the Doctor alone.

Svenson stepped into the kitchen but Sorge had already walked out onto the porch. Svenson took out his silver case, selected a cigarette, and tapped it on the case before lighting it. Sorge exhaled sharply—miserably, for Svenson had so recently been such a stroke of good fortune— and his words came tumbling out.

“What about the flooding? Where is your Chang? The others say you must deliver him up! Or they will blame you! I have told them… but… but…”

Svenson blew a stream of smoke over the yard. The other men were gone. Miss Temple could not yet leave. He tapped his ash over the rail.

“It cannot be easy for you, my friend—you who have been so kind to us all, who have saved our lives. I will, of course— of course —do all I can to make things right with your village.” Svenson took another puff of his cigarette. “Sorge… you are quite sure that none of your fellows has seen Chang themselves? They would tell you, yes?”

“Of course they would!”

“Indeed—now, these deaths. We must sort them out—we must sort them to everyone's satisfaction. Will you trust me this much? Will you let me speak to the other men?”

Sorge did not reply and Svenson put his hand on the man's shoulder.

“It would be better for everyone—for the women —that no one be left afraid.”

Svenson wondered if the man had already sent his wife and daughter to hide in one of the sheds.

“I will call them together,” said Sorge. “An hour, at the boats.”

“I'm sure that will do perfectly.”

HE SLIPPED into Miss Temple's room. Elöise sat on the opposite side of the bed, looking down.

“Sorge claims they have not found Chang.”

She nodded but did not reply. Svenson rubbed his eyes.

“Before anything else, I am sorry for not telling you about the dead grooms. I had hoped they did not portend anything. I am sorry.”

“And do they? Portend anything?” Her voice was hoarse with worry. “Did Chang believe so—is that why he has gone?”