The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set

by Tarn Richardson

  “The assailant came through the window. No other way of entry into the residence.”

  “Unless he came through the front door.”

  “He’d need a key for that. And there’s only one. Aguillard has that. No signs of forced entry that way.”

  “Is there with the window?”

  “No, and that’s my point. The assailant came through the window. There’s no other way into the apartment other than through the window or the front door. We can discount the door, so he or she must have come in via the window. It’s on street level. He opened it from outside, quite casually, drew it open and waited in here for Aguillard to come home. Quite calm. Quite prepared.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Where’s the devastation, the clawed walls, the upturned and shattered furniture, the smashed window? Where’s the chaos which follows in the wake of one possessed with lycanthropy overwhelmed with rage and terror as sure as night follows day? This confirms what I thought earlier. We have someone who’s got hold of a werewolf pelt.”

  “Werewolf pelt?”

  Tacit had only encountered one werewolf pelt before, on the shores of the Black Sea, when investigating rumours of a cannibal living in the grounds of one of the churches there. The story went that thirteen members of the same family had been devoured in a single night, all that remained being their shoes and feet. Werewolf pelts were rare and malevolent things, cut from the bodies of living werewolves whilst in wolf form.

  “Pelt, taken from a true wolf. Imbues the user with the wolf’s powers but with a difference. The wearer is in control over their actions, their rage, at least to a degree, not like true wolves, not like Hombre Lobo.”

  “Well, looks like our killer’s getting a taste for it. The power.”

  “Yes, and for Catholics.”

  Outside the door to the residence, they could hear the change in the rota of Catholic guards watching the door. It never failed to amaze Tacit how quickly the Vatican was able to get to and close down crime scenes when they needed to.

  “So what’s the thread?” Tacit continued, blinking the last vestiges of the previous night’s drinking out of his eyes. He bit hard into his lip. “Two Fathers murdered by someone masquerading as a wolf.”

  “And you’re sure this isn’t a true wolf?”

  “The presence of bodies after the attack proves it’s not a true wolf, as does the careful entry. When a true wolf attacks, there’s nothing left. This is a planned attack, not a wanton one.”

  “So, where to now, Inquisitor?” asked Isabella, scratching the end of her nose.

  “Seeing as we don’t know the identity of this individual our opinions are limited. I think there’s one place we should investigate. I just hope it gives us the information we need to catch this killer.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Father Andreas’ private residence.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  09:15. WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  It wasn’t a grand building, nondescript would be the politest way of describing the residence. It was a cold stone construction tucked away at the very edge of the square where the Cathedral tower’s shadow touched at sundown. There were no ornate doors welcoming returning Fathers from their communion or Mass or their work within the community, no greeting of gold scripture or holy mosaic to inspire visitors of the Priests. A single, solid plain dark wood door standing slightly ajar, set back in the sandy brickwork and up a low step, was the lowly entrance to the residence.

  Tacit pushed his way in, almost filling the passageway with his size. He stomped his way to the wooden railed stairway and peered around it to the corridor beyond. Something drew his eye upwards and he climbed, taking the steps two at a time.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Isabella called after him.

  If he did, he didn’t tell her. The stairs reached a landing thirty steps up and turned back on themselves, climbing again. Isabella was sure she could hear Tacit breathing hard, as he took the second set of steps without pause. At the top, the corridor plunged left into darkness. Along the right-hand wall were a number of doors. One stood slightly ajar and there was a shuffling coming from within.

  Tacit powered into the room, ready for anything.

  Inside the room stood a fat man, dressed in work clothes, grimy and sweat soaked. He had a double chin, which wobbled whenever he turned his head, and a belly upon which he could comfortably rest a plate. From his face it was clear that Tacit’s entrance had nearly shocked the life out of him.

  “Where’s all his stuff?” Tacit growled.

  “Whose stuff? The Father’s?” The man, dressed in trousers and a shirt, cuffs rolled roughly to his elbows, indicated the boxes. “All packed away.”

  “Who told you to pack up his stuff?”

  “Who wants to know? You can’t just storm into rooms scaring people.”

  Tacit took a step forward. Isabella caught him by the arm and drew him back. He surprised her by doing as she guided.

  “We’re investigating the Father’s sudden demise,” the Sister announced, stepping forward so that she could direct the conversation.

  The man sized her up for a moment, and then stepped over to another box, which he manhandled to sit alongside the others he had moved, huffing and straining with every ounce of his strength. “Yes,” he said, his manner warming. “A bit of a shock. Particularly for Father Andreas.”

  “Who told you to pack up his stuff?”

  “The powers that be?”

  “The Vatican?”

  “Cardinal Poré.”

  Isabella heard Tacit’s breath harden. She didn’t peer around.

  “Any idea why?”

  “Why?” the man replied. “Why am I packing up his stuff?” He laughed thinly. “Because he’s dead!” The caretaker didn’t look like a man much used to exercise. His neck and armpits were ringed with sweat. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and exhaled loudly. “They need the space,” he added, with a wave of it. “More Priests coming. One thing the Catholic Church has no shortage of is Priests.”

  “Where are these going?” Tacit asked.

  “These boxes? Storage. Strange though,” he said, picking up the penultimate box and struggling across the room with it.

  “Strange? Why?” asked Isabella, as the man dropped it with a moan.

  “Well, I’ve cleared out Priest stuff before. Usually it goes off to the family. You know, heirlooms, personal documents, keepsakes, all that stuff. But this stuff, it’s all for storage, every last box.”

  “Perhaps he has no family?” Isabella suggested.

  “No family?” the man laughed. “Father Andreas has family alright.”

  Isabella looked back at Tacit. The Inquisitor’s eyes were fixed on the caretaker.

  “Alessandro. Alessandro Dequois.” He said it in a way as if he expected both visitors to know the name. He saw their reaction and shook his head with a sigh. “Alessandro Dequois, one of the finest butchers in Arras.”

  Tacit raised an eyebrow. “And can you tell us where this Alessandro lives?”

  “I can do better than that. You help me shift this stuff downstairs and I’ll take you directly to him. He’s my neighbour.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  09:32. WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1914.

  THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

  Six ravens, squawking oily black shards in the blue heavens, circled three times around the figure crossing St. Peter’s Square before coming to land in his wake. Cardinal Adansoni was walking as fast as his tired legs would carry him away from the Chair of Saint Peter and the Colonnades, his head down, his face as black as the birds pecking at his trail. He’d received word during a meeting with his younger acolytes that persons unknown were in his private quarters. Without delay he’d excused himself and left for his apartment.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he called, stepping into the corridor which ran to the open doors of his residence, catching sight of a figure insi
de. The double doors had been flung wide and, as he neared, he saw more figures inside, black-cassocked and keen-featured, picking through open drawers of his desk, peering into cabinets standing against walls. At once he knew to which organisation the men belonged. He rested momentarily, a hand to the frame, catching his breath before he asked his question again, this time even more firmly. “What is the meaning of this? What business have the Sodalitium Pianum in my quarters?”

  The bear that was Monsignor Benigni appeared from Adansoni’s bedroom, clad all in black save for the collar of white at his neck. Behind his fine-rimmed oval glasses, sitting snug against his well-fed heavy features, his black darting eyes narrowed on Adansoni. A collection of newspapers was clutched in his pudgy right hand. He strode directly at him, the Cardinal retreating back out of the room, as if fearing he was to be physically assaulted by the large rotund man. As Benigni neared he clapped twice and, like obedient dogs, his team of men of the Sodalitium Pianum stopped in their searches and fell quickly into line behind him outside Adansoni’s apartment.

  “I asked what the meaning of this ... this intrusion is?” Adansoni demanded, regathering some of his nerve now that it seemed the Sodalitium Pianum were leaving. “Monsignor Benigni!” he roared, a sudden pique of anger thrusting out of him. “Answer me!”

  At once the dark-haired man at the front of the line, sweating faintly from his exertions, stopped and held up his hand, bent firm at the elbow. Behind him, the line of agents paused without word.

  “Cardinal Adansoni,” Monsignor Benigni began, his place at the head of the line unchanged, his eyes still firm to the corridor ahead, “you understand the work of the Sodalitium Pianum, the Fellowship of Pius?”

  “I understand what it is you claim to do, to seek out those believed to be indulging in forbidden texts and doctrine. So why visit me? What have I, a loyal servant, done to attract your attentions?”

  “It is not what you have necessarily done,” replied Benigni mysteriously. “It is who you know,” he added, before striding out of the corridor and into the depths of Vatican City.

  FORTY

  1898. URAL MOUNTAINS. RUSSIA.

  Inquisitor Tocco was acting strangely. He had been, for much of the journey to the Ural Mountains, irritable and prone to bouts of madness as they’d slogged across Eastern Europe, delirious and remote ever since they’d left the town in Kazakhstan Tocco had insisted on visiting, ahead of their climb into the southern foot of the mountain range.

  “One night to replenish stores,” he’d called to Tacit excitedly, as they’d approached the outskirts of the village. But the young Inquisitor understood what Tocco was really looking to replenish.

  Tacit knew what was in the bottle Tocco fed himself. The Inquisitor never mentioned its contents but Tacit recognised the signs of laudanum, the lethargy in Tocco’s movements, the remoteness of his presence after he imbibed. His stocks had run dry halfway across Europe and his mood had soured. But the Kazakhstan dealer’s wares were well known to Tocco. He had frequented this place many times before when assignments had taken him north, the opium being deliciously bitter and strong. He knew he had only to hang on until they reached the herbalist’s home and his redemption would be granted.

  Tacit wasn’t surprised or alarmed by his master’s addiction. There wasn’t an Inquisitor Tacit knew who didn’t have a crutch of some sort to support him through the rigours of his work. To soften the blow. To mask the pain.He’d soon grown blind to Tocco’s obsession. He rarely noticed how his master’s tincture was forever glued to his lips.

  “Remember,” Tocco muttered dreamily, as he stumbled over a stone in the pathway behind the striding young disciple, climbing high into the mountains, “this is reconnaissance, not battle. We go to look and report back. We’re not going to cause trouble, or go looking for it.”

  But in the closing dark, those words seemed to have turned foul. Standing on a rocky precipice, halfway up the ascent, Tacit’s bright cold eyes fixed on the approaching figures, disfigured by the swirling mists and the ravaging wasteland in which they dwelt.

  “We must go back,” he heard Rocco call behind him, suddenly animated by the figures’ appearance, “back to the cave we passed a short time ago. We’re not fixed for battle. I’m not ready!”

  They hadn’t expected to find so many of the heretics gathered together, the apostates who’d been burning churches and stealing what they could. Tacit knew the Inquisitor was in no state to fight, poorly equipped for battle and ruined by his opium. But he knew they couldn’t flee. There were too many of them and they were blocking the only possible route to escape.

  Tacit knew they needed a magazined rifle if they were to have any hope of fighting them off, like the one the leader held in his hands.

  Tacit felt the biting wind and heard Tocco cry, “What are you doing, boy?” as he raised his hands to show the approaching scrum of heretics that he was unarmed. There was laughter, and the pack gathered about him like dogs; a sharp kick to his knee and he was shackled as he fell.

  He looked back and watched the clan swarm over the stoned Inquisitor; two shots rang out and then a cheer. He felt the shackles cut into his wrists. He’d bring a good bargaining price for the mob, a young one like him. The shackles were tight, but they’d been tied at the front. That was their first mistake.

  The leader crouched close by, laughing as his men beat Tocco to a bloody pulp with stones and the handles of the pistols they carried. Foolish. They should have watched the captured young boy. A second mistake. It would be their last.

  The first the leader knew about Tacit’s escape was a foot striking him firmly in the chest. As he fell, Tacit snatched the rifle from him and had blown the leader’s face clean off before he had even hit the ground. Heads turned away from the now mutilated body of Inquisitor Tocco.

  Tacit targeted the bandits with pistols first, working the trigger and bolt of the Krag-Jørgensen rifle as if it were automatic. It had been adapted in its lifetime to house ten rounds. Tacit used every one of them. Nine bodies hit the hard stone. Now the rifle was a club.

  He dashed the brains from the quickest of his attackers, the second man was sent tumbling over the edge of the cliff, his cry lasting several seconds before it was snuffed out by an abrupt landing on jagged rocks below. A third nonbeliever swung a fist holding a rock. He removed the thug’s teeth with the butt of the rifle and crushed his windpipe with a second jab.

  The two remaining figures hesitated and slunk back, their eyes on the boy and then each other. Tacit picked up a rock and hurled it at the figure on the left. It caved in the front of his forehead, crumpling him with a grunt to the ground. The other man yelped like the dog he was and turned. The young Inquisitor let him go, a warning to others that retribution for heretics was coming.

  The footsteps of the fleeing bandit were swallowed up within the enveloping mists. Nothing but the sound of the wind could be heard on that rocky path where Tacit now stood. He looked over towards the pile of bodies lying motionless on the floor, spotting the thick forearm of his master amongst the misshapen torsos and limbs of the heretics. Tacit swallowed. He knew Tocco was dead. His master of the last five years was gone.

  Once more he was alone.

  The young Inquisitor took a step forward and at once the air around him erupted into brilliant light, bright balls of fire in front of his eyes, about his body. He shrieked and held out his hands in horror, turning them over and over, dashing left and right, waving away the flames in an attempt to extinguish them, expecting any moment to feel the searing pain of fire’s angry touch.

  But no pain came. There was nothing. No pain, no more fear. Instead Tacit was wrapped in nothing other than a feeling of complete protective warmth and peace, a feeling he could scarcely remember from any time previous in his life.

  He looked about himself slowly, shining like a beacon on the side of the mountainside, and stretched out his arms wide. He shuddered, realising the light had lifted him from the ground and he was
hanging in the air, inches from the path, bound by the might of some higher power.

  And then a voice, just like his mother’s, whispered in his ear.

  FORTY-ONE

  11:00. WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1914.

  ARRAS. FRANCE.

  A deep, resonant bell had sounded the eleventh hour of the day by the time the landlord had moved all of Father Andreas’ boxes from his residence, across the square and over to the Cathedral buildings. He wandered over to Tacit and Isabella, who had sat for the majority of the toil in the heat of approaching midday sunning themselves, dabbing his forehead and mumbling angrily under his breath.

  “Well, thank you for all your help,” he said sarcastically, wiping the back of his neck and forehead dry of sweat. “Did I mention that I had a heart condition and my doctor has recommended that I rest?”

  “Then get another job,” Tacit retorted, swinging his legs over the edge of the wall of the water fountain along which he had lain, recuperating. He was in no mood to help move boxes. If anything, he would have spent the time peering through their contents, but seeing as there were so many boxes and he didn’t wish to arouse suspicion, he decided that an hour under the restorative sun would do him more good. Also the lead of Father Andreas’ brother was an unexpected turn-up. “Come on, let’s go,” Tacit clapped, helping Isabella from the wall with a politely offered hand.

  “Go where?” the caretaker retorted. “I’m going for a drink first. You didn’t play fair. If you’d offered to help, maybe I would have taken you there first. But seeing as you decided to lounge around waiting for me to finish my lugging, then you can damn well wait around while I do a bit of glugging.”

  Tacit stepped up to the man and, towering over him, shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he grunted. “You’ve kept us waiting long enough. Let’s hop to it,” Tacit barked, tugging at the man’s coat sleeve.

  The caretaker grumbled the whole way back to his house and that of Alessandro Dequois next door. When they arrived, at first they said that there must be some mistake. The house was a butcher’s shop.