by Jon Evans
Loft stepped into the room to find the Doctor using a sponge and bucket to rinse down the autopsy table they'd got for him. The body had been placed into a proper if cheap, coffin.
"I'm afraid I have another customer for you," Loft said.
"Same killer?" Gardener asked cautiously.
"I think so, not as gruesome but probably worse in some ways," Loft said. The doctor looked puzzled, so he explained, "This victim is the lasts child, a boy of about ten, his throat has a massive bruise on it."
"How thoroughly unpleasant. I do hope you catch this man soon, Loft, before he murders more people," Gardener said.
"That's the plan. I must get on with helping them bring the boy up here, excuse me," Loft said and went to the shaft at the opposite side of the room to lower the ropes to his men.
It was easier than the last, even with the crate and the rug he was wrapped in, it was still much lighter, and that made it somehow more awful.
No-one, including the doctor, had the stomach to deal with any more than that straight away. The day was over, and there wasn't any more they could do this evening. Loft clapped his friend on the shoulder and led him out of the room.
He gathered everyone up and told them the shift was over. The Old Gate Inn beckoned, and he offered to buy the first two rounds, a statement that was met with a murmur of appreciation. Unsurprisingly, no-one was feeling too much like celebrating.
Chapter Eleven
"Captain? The Dr wants to see you."
Loft rolled over on his cot grunted a response and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, waving his hand to acknowledge he'd heard the message.
The doctor was slumped forward on the desk, head resting on his arms by the time he got to the autopsy room. Loft tapped him on the shoulder, and he sat bolt upright.
"I'm up I'm up!" Gardener said all evidence to the contrary blinking blearily.
"It looks like we're both in need of our bed's Doctor," Loft said.
That earned him a baleful glare from his friend, who looked as exhausted as he felt. "You sent for me?" he said as the doctor yawned loudly, "Perhaps we should both get some sleep and talk about this in the morning?" Loft suggested.
"No, no, no. I'd rather talk while it's fresh in my mind. Perl was stabbed seven times, all in the lower back. The wounds are about five inches deep, and the cuts are very clean. They're almost two inches wide but narrow quickly. I've drawn the shape of the blade for you on that paper over there, as best as I can guess, anyway," Gardener said. Loft picked up the sketch as the doctor went on.
"The cuts are clean and neat in a way that tells me that the weapon was very sharp, like my surgical scalpels although I'm assuming it's a dagger obviously," Gardener said, pointing at the wounds and gesturing to show what he meant.
"Bruising around the neck suggests to me that he was held tightly while he was stabbed, left arm around the neck and stabbing quickly into the lower right of the back. None of those wounds would have caused him to bleed out quickly though, the major organs were missed, and I can't see how you'd do that unless you'd been taught to. If you just stab people randomly, they die quickly as you're almost bound to puncture an organ or slice open a vein," he explained.
"You're saying he stabbed Perl seven times but in such a way that he'd die slowly?" Loft asked trying to keep the incredulity from his voice.
"I can't be certain. I'm not a fighter. Seems to be a reasonable assumption that if you intend to kill a man, the sooner you can do it the better though. Without the other wounds though I can't claim I'd have c realised the way these were inflicted," Gardener said.
"What about the rest then?" Loft asked.
"The eyes are not what you'd expect either. Beyond them being outside the skull that is. An amateur would stick his thumb in the eye or gouge it with a knife. That's not how you do it," Gardener explained.
"Forgive me Doctor, but it sounds exactly like what I'd do if I were going to gouge someone's eyes out. Not that I can think of a reason that I'd want to," Loft said.
"It's messy, and you won't get the eyeball out intact, like those are," Gardener said, gesturing to one of his benches. Loft felt his head turn, unbidden and regretted his lack of self-control when he saw the eyeballs floating in a solution in a jar.
He swallowed and forced his gaze back to the doctor, "How did he do it then?"
"You'd use a tool like this, if you were a surgeon," Gardener replied holding up a spoon shaped tool from his tray, "but I doubt this man had anything that specific. Perhaps he used a small spoon, or he might have had a tool designed for it. Butchers use a similar tool to get eyeballs out of carcasses for pretentious soups. Have any of the other watch houses reported victims without eyeballs?"
"Reported? Doctor, no-one at the Palace asks for reports unless there's someone in authority whose upset. Most of the watch houses don't even write down what happens when they arrest someone. They only do that if the magistrates ask for a written account," Loft said bitterly, "I can't imagine we wouldn't have heard the gossip though if there'd been a rash of similar attacks."
"If he's not doing it regularly then, he quite probably just used a spoon, but if you find something at all like my tool, it'll be a good indication you have your man," Gardener replied.
"Unless he's a butcher or a surgeon," Loft said.
Gardener shrugged and nodded, "Unless he's a member of either of those professions. Moving on, before I cleaned the blood off, I noticed that it had run down his face while his eyeballs were scooped out." He paused, and Loft wasn't sure whether he was supposed to exclaim his understanding or ask another question, so he let the silence remain unfilled until the doctor huffed and carried on.
"Loft, are all watch officers this ignorant? When you're dead, you stop bleeding much more than a dribble, at any rate," Gardener said, leaving time for that to sink in.
"He was alive when the bastard scooped out his eyes?" Loft asked.
"He most certainly was, and in case you're about to ask, yes it would be agonisingly painful. One of the most violent and torturous things I can think of to do to a man in fact. It would have eclipsed the sensation from his back without a shadow of a doubt. His lips are bruised, and I think the killer held him from behind, clamping his hand down over his mouth to muffle the screaming, and probably to hold his head still," Gardener said.
"He didn't shove something in it like a rag?" said Loft.
"I did look in his mouth but didn't see anything that would suggest that, like a telltale thread. I'm not sure why that would matter, but if it does, I can't tell you either way," Gardener said.
"Probably not but it's as well to ask. Anything more about Perl's body, Doctor?"
"Not really, the cut across the midriff is what finally caused him to die, probably from the blood loss but he might have had a heart attack at that point. No-one has studied them well enough for me to know what that would look like unfortunately," Gardener said apologetically.
"Really? I'd have thought medical professors would find that fascinating," Loft said.
"They do, and it could be very helpful to us, but most people don't leave their bodies to medical science. In any case, you'd need a witness there who could tell you what happened to the deceased so you'd know to look for a heart attack. If you see anyone die of one, I'm sure the university would pay for their cadaver," Gardener said cheerfully.
"Oh, certainly, Doctor. I'll remember to ask the wife if I might have the body for your anatomy class, next time I see that," Loft replied, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.
"Thankfully the boy's case is far simpler. Quite simply, he was strangled to death. The bruising around his neck is quite wide but it's not fingers, it's almost certainly a short length of rope used as a garotte. I can show you, but I wouldn't look if I were you, you've seen quite enough death for a novice in the last day," Gardener said, his tone flatter and more respectful.
Loft understood it was far harder to be dispassionate about the death of a child. The father had been involved
in some dubious dealings, and that made it easier than if he'd been a squeaky clean pillar of the community but the innocence of a child was the exact opposite.
"I saw enough when we uncovered him so thank you for sparing me another look. Unless there's something about what happened to him, we might use to find the murderer I probably don't need to know," Loft said.
"No, I can't see anything remarkable about the body. There was a small toy wrapped in a bit of cloth wrapped up with him, and I'd say he was buried with his best clothes on," Gardener said.
"I think it's safe to say his family laid him to rest, given the care that was taken. I don't suppose you had a chance to look at the contents of the bottles, did you?" Loft asked hopefully.
"I did, but all I can tell you is that I don't know what they are. The fact that they're not labelled worries me," he said.
"Why?" Loft asked though he imagined his friend was thinking along similar lines that he and Gurnt were. A third party confirmation would be helpful.
"You saw the jars in his spice shop, yes?" Loft nodded, "Did you notice how neatly placed they all were? The labels were meticulously written, clear enough to read from a good distance, all priced and well ordered. A man who does that would label anything he put in a bottle, wouldn't he? So why not label these? Whatever they were, they must be valuable and probably illicit if it's worth burying them under his dead son. He didn't want anyone to have them, ever. I don't know much about the culture in the south, but I doubt they would be keen to disturb their dead to retrieve valuables," Gardener finished.
"All good points, Doctor. Thank you for your insight. I just wish I knew what was in the bottles," Loft said.
"I thought you might say that. I wrote down the name of a chemistry chap at the University on that card by the door. If anyone can identify the contents, he or his colleagues can, but you'd best warn him they're quite likely dangerous. Chemists can be a bit blase about the risks of their work, you hardly ever see one with eyebrows or without burns of one kind or another. They could be a type of narcotic substance, or they could be poisons. I've wracked my brains and can't think of anything else that would have enough value to bury or be bad enough that you wouldn't want to label," Gardener said.
"My thanks again, Doctor. I'll go and speak to them in the morning," Loft said.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, Loft took Constable Knave to the University with him. It seemed like a good opportunity to get to know him and his capabilities better, and he seemed the most likely to benefit from the experience.
They'd hardly stepped inside the gates before Loft realised the constable was no longer by his side. He turned and found that Knave was standing at the crest of the entrance looking up open mouthed at the architecture.
"Impressive isn't it?" he asked. It certainly was. The main buildings were from a time before the Shattered Empire.
"Never seen it up close Sir," Knave said.
"Come on," Loft said, "Time for looking around another day, we have a murderer to catch."
"Yes, sir." Knave said.
Loft knew better than to wander about the buildings, looking for the right office. He went straight to the porter's office and asked for directions. He was recognised from his own time there and got a much warmer reception than he imagined many of his colleagues in the Watch would have received. He hadn't been one of the troublemakers.
The chemistry department had several buildings, one for offices and rooms for the faculty that was all tall spires, bell towers and ornately carved stonework. Another building, blockier but still rather more ornate than most buildings in the city, housed the lecture halls and some laboratories.
There were some gardens behind those buildings, which Loft recalled were stocked with plants and trees whose main role was practical rather than ornamental. Their sap or leaves were used for various chemical experiments and infusions.
The gardens also separated the last group of buildings from the rest of the campus. A tree lined avenue ran in front of them, used to allow access for deliveries through a side gate and for little else. Few people wanted to get that close to those buildings unless they were students who needed to carry out experiments and even then, many were too nervous to approach the squat, boxlike structures.
They had thick, stone walls. The windows had heavy shutters rather than fine glass, the roofs were light and looked almost as if the rested gently atop the structures, rather than being part of them.
This was where the Universities brightest young chemists and their eyebrowless Professors, developed and tested new ideas. Mostly these were entirely harmless, but accidents happened. There was always some cocky young chemist visiting the University medical schools teaching hospital with chemical burns or injuries from something that exploded, either through intention or entirely unexpectedly.
Fortunately, Professor Simmerson was in his office in the main building, and they didn't have to venture back there. Fascinating as it would be, Loft had heard enough loud bangs and yelling coming from the rear buildings that he wouldn't feel entirely safe going in one.
They were shown in by the Professors assistant, a man whose sense of fashion identified him as a fellow chemist, and were invited to sit while tea was prepared. Loft wanted to get on with his questions, but Professor Simmerson was grey and bespectacled, wearing a thick, tweed jacket and trousers and shirt.
Some of the Professors were young, vigorous men with a modern approach. Some were incredibly stuffy and formal, Professor Simmerson seemed somewhere between those two, but it was probably best to hold back and not be too eager to avoid offending him on his turf. Faculty could be rather prickly when challenged or pressured, and they were, after all, about to ask for a favour.
After the professor's assistant had served tea, Constable Knave was happily munching on the provided biscuits and trying to look comfortable sipping tea from fine porcelain, the Professor leaned forward in his armchair and peered at Loft.
"So, young Mr Loft is back and in the garb of a Watchman, eh?" he asked.
That was somewhat of a shock. He really hadn't thought the Professor would remember one of his students who'd taken a couple of courses several years ago. "Yes, Sir. Although it's Captain Loft these days, Professor," he replied.
The Professor nodded and smiled, "Of course, I apologise for not recognising your rank, I don't have much contact with the Watch. Tell me, am I going slightly senile perhaps or weren't you in our hallowed halls just a few short years ago? I remember you in my lectures and always thought you had promise, but surely it wasn't long enough for you to reach the rank of Captain?"
"You're correct, Sir, it was just a few years ago. I enrolled at the University a little younger than most and went through the Watch Academy immediately after I left. I've been fortunate to rise to the rank of Captain faster than most do, mostly because there was a vacancy at one of the smaller Watch Houses," Loft explained.
"I see. Good to know I'm not descending into dotage then. Which Watch House did you get if you don't mind my asking?" Simmerson asked.
"The Old Gate Watch House," said Loft.
"The Thieftakers you mean? Now that is a surprise, but I can imagine it's a good way for a young Watch officer to climb the greasy pole. Now, Captain, why don't you tell me what I can do to be of assistance?" the Professor asked.
Loft opened the small satchel he'd brought with him and carefully withdrew a box from which he removed two small packages. The Professor waited patiently while he unwrapped the cloth bundles, revealing two bottles. One large and green, the other small and blue.
"Unlabelled bottles, eh? Allow me to speculate. You have found these bottles while performing your duties, and you have reason to suspect that the contents are dangerous in some way but probably have no idea what they are, yes?" Loft nodded.
Simmerson continued, "The lack of a label is never a good sign I find. It either indicates something deliberately harmful or perhaps worse, someone, with no regard for proper labellin
g. When students commit that particular crime in my faculty, their punishments are long and exhausting. Fortunately, there's always some idiot who wants to help the staff tackle the more unpleasant and back breaking work in the laboratories. Failing that the toilets always need cleaning and the herb garden must be weeded regularly."
The Professor seemed quite put out by the very idea of an unlabelled bottle, "It's so dangerous you see. Those bottles could contain anything at all. A safe, inert, ingredient. Something highly toxic. Water. A liquid with an obnoxious smell and some of those can take weeks to leave the skin or clothing I can assure you. It could be acid or alkali and cause hideous burns which would leave you scarred and in agony for life. I won't have that sort of thing in my lab."
"I couldn't agree more Professor Simmerson, and I recall your lecture to the first years on the subject of laboratory safety. I must say, it helped cement my reaction when we found these bottles, although the circumstances assisted in that regard," Loft replied.