Twelve Days

by Paul Williams

  A halo of blood surrounded Stephen’s head. His eyes stared ahead, his mouth was open in a silent scream.

  And now, in the light, I noticed his head lay on a large silver platter.

  I recalled that in the French Revolution, the severed head of Charlotte Corday stared in anger at her executioner, and in more recent cases, the head reacted with shock at seeing its decapitated body. And even a case when the severed head reacted when his name was called. It meant Stephen may have been conscious long enough to realise what had happened to him, long enough to see his executioner.

  The beam of Mike’s flashlight wavered on the cobbled floor. ‘How did you find him?’ His question was infused with meaning.

  Whatever suspicions I had of them, I realised the distrust was mutual. ‘Last night he asked me to meet him here at dawn. He said he had something to tell me.’ About Glen’s murder, I wanted to add. I looked each man in the eye. Reverend James held my gaze, then broke it to reach for the card in Stephen’s hand. ‘Leave it!’ I called, grabbing his arm. ‘It’s evidence.’

  The Reverend shook me off, withdrawing his hand. ‘Such a terrible accident. I told everyone this room was dangerous. The blade must have fallen…’

  I was stunned at his continued denial of the obvious.

  ‘Wait, what’s this?’ Danny’s flashlight played across a Bible lying open in the corner of the room. I had missed it earlier in the pre-dawn light. The beam illuminated a passage marked in red.

  Reverend James turned ashen. ‘Corinthians 13. The third day of Christmas.’

  I shook my head. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Look.’ Reverend James shone his flashlight onto the card between the dead man’s fingers. ‘The three hens stand for faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these is–’

  ‘Love,’ completed Mike.

  As he spoke, we heard footsteps outside the room and a shadow loomed in the doorway. Emily, dishevelled, in her dressing gown, scratching her head. Behind her hovered Suzanne, Linda and Alison.

  ‘Here you all are,’ said Emily. ‘We were worried. What’s going on?’

  I moved to block their line of sight. ‘Please.’ Reverend James joined me, motioning to the women to move away. Too late. Linda screamed.

  ‘Oh my God!’ whispered Emily.

  Alison hid in the corridor and began sobbing hysterically. Suzanne froze in the doorway, taking everything in.

  The window rattled in the wind, the curtains blew like restless spirits, and if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought I saw devils racing out of the windows. Primitive superstition still lives in our DNA.

  Emily pushed past me, her eyes wide. She crouched by the corpse, pressed the flesh and let it go. Then she knelt by the head and opened one eyeball with the tip of her finger.

  She knelt back on her haunches, wiping her hands on her dressing gown. ‘Six to eight hours, I’d say.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Suzanne moaned, standing in the doorway. Her horror seemed as real as mine.

  I walked around Stephen’s body, examining his limbs for any other injuries, and spied a small red dot, like a wasp sting in his neck. I crouched down next to Emily and pointed. She nodded.

  ‘Time to get out of here,’ I said. I waited until everyone had turned to leave before slipping my hand into Stephen’s trouser pocket and palming what I found there into my own.

  4

  Four calling birds

  No one had an appetite, but we sat dutifully at the dining room table and drank strong coffee, staring at one another. The thought was palpable: there was a murderer in this castle. Eight people sat around the dining room table in silence, and eight reflections imitated their despair. No one knew where to begin. Even Reverend James had nothing to say.

  Linda had dressed and brushed her hair. Alison, also dressed, sat close to her, shivering. Suzanne, still in her dressing gown, positioned herself away from everyone at the far end of the table, her face the perfect mask of grief – tear-stained cheeks, red eyes, emotional restraint. Mike drained his coffee and stood. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘No,’ said Reverend James, holding his arm.

  Mike shook him off. ‘There must be a way through. The road may be impassable for cars, but on foot I stand a better chance.’

  Silence.

  ‘Not now, surely?’ Emily looked at the grey morning outside, the blizzard enveloping the castle like a shroud.

  ‘And once you get into the village?’ said Suzanne. ‘No vehicle can get back here.’

  ‘Helicopter,’ said Mike, walking to the closet by the front door where all our jackets were kept. ‘They can airlift us out. It’s obvious we’re not safe. None of us.’

  Reverend James stood and followed him to the hall entrance. ‘Maybe it will be safer if two of us go.’

  Mike pulled his jacket on and zipped up the front. ‘I’m a mountaineer, remember? This is what I do best.’ He sat down to strap on his boots and then slipped on his gloves. ‘If I leave now, we’ll be out of here by lunchtime.’

  Mike waved goodbye with his thick mitten as he opened the front door. I sensed relief in his stature, envied him escaping the confines of the castle. Emily and I stood by the window and watched him disappear into the whiteness of the courtyard. By my reckoning, it would take him three hours at least to plough through the snow, walk down that windy road and reach the village.

  If all went well.

  ‘God, keep him safe,’ murmured Alison.

  ‘“Trust in the Lord with all your heart”,’ intoned Reverend James, clasping his trembling hands, ‘“and lean not on your own understanding.”’

  ‘P-Proverbs 3, verse 5,’ responded Danny with the eagerness of a child seeking approval.

  I had learned this verse, and many others, back in the days when I was a believer, when life was predestined, ordered by God if you kept to His narrow path. Or Reverend James’ narrow path. Now I trusted nothing but my own understanding to navigate the path ahead, my only moral compass.

  And I would need all my understanding to figure this one out.

  Back at the table, Suzanne chewed on one of her nails. ‘What about Stephen’s body?’

  Emily answered for all of us. ‘We leave it as it is. It’s a crime scene.’

  ‘Clearly an accident,’ said Reverend James. ‘But the police still need to determine how it happened.’

  I bit back my words. No one accidentally got in the way of a guillotine or managed to have their head conveniently roll onto a silver platter. Plus there was the card.

  ‘It’s freezing in there,’ explained Emily, ‘so there’s no chance of decay.’

  ‘A natural morgue,’ I added. ‘Just like Glen’s body in the snow.’

  No one vocalised it, but despite what Reverend James said, we all knew the truth. Now there were two murders.

  Linda stood. ‘I’m going to make breakfast.’

  Reverend James nodded. ‘Good idea. I’ve locked the museum room. God willing, the police will be here this afternoon. Meanwhile, it is time for some spiritual reflection.’

  I stifled a groan. This man who saw God’s will in everything got ready to deliver yet another sermon. As he began, I watched him closely and listened for clues. Was his religious fervour, his piety, a façade concealing a ruthless murderer?

  Once done, he clutched his Bible to his chest. ‘Pray, and God will post an angel at the head of each of us. Everyone lock their doors when they are alone in their room.’ He held his Bible aloft. ‘We need to keep Satan at bay. Consider the frailty of life. The end can come like a thief in the night. We need to be vigilant, ready, at peace with God.’

  Lock your doors: just as Glen had said.

  The thoughts spun around me. Stephen had known something that had terrified him. He was going to tell me something in the library. Then he asked to meet me in the ‘guillotine room’. Why?

  He had some kind of evidence he was afraid to share.

  Had he been killed because of what he knew about Glen’s death?r />
  But there was a worrying pattern beginning to emerge here that made me think there was more. On the second night of Christmas, the person holding the two turtle doves dies. On the third night, the man holding the three French hens card dies. And even my mind began playing tricks here and making patterns. French hens. The French Revolution. The guillotine. It reminded me of those people who apply numerological contortions to the Bible and use it to prove… well, anything they want.

  Calmer now, Alison rose and announced she was going to help Linda make breakfast. ‘Emily, Suzanne, want to join me?’

  Neither woman looked keen, but food preparation had always been a gender thing in the Church, so they followed Alison into the kitchen. We men remained at the table and waited for our meal, no doubt some of us reflecting on the perniciousness of God’s will.

  A while later, Linda led the women out carrying trays of eggs, bacon, sausages and toast.

  Linda served her husband, Alison the other two men, and Suzanne brought a plate for herself with meagre pickings – a tomato, lettuce leaves and a slice of toast.

  Once all the women were seated, Reverend James began. ‘What I have to say is going to be quite confronting. We will need the full armour of God to protect us here.’

  He opened his Bible at a marked page, shuffled a sheaf of papers and read from his handwritten notes. ‘On the 27th of December, the third day of Christmas, we traditionally recognise the martyrdom of John the Baptist. You all know the story. We have often used it in our sermons to warn about… adultery and sexual temptation.’

  Danny’s face lit up like an overeager schoolboy. ‘S-Salome was dancing before Herod and he offered her anything she w-wanted as long as she would keep d-dancing for him.’

  Alison took a sharp breath. ‘And she asked for the head of John the Baptist.’

  ‘On a silver platter,’ I finished.

  ‘Christ,’ said Suzanne, holding her hands up to her head.

  Reverend James winced at the use of the Lord’s name in vain and slammed his book shut. ‘Yes. Only Christ can help us now. This is the work of the devil. Something I don’t think even the police can help us with.’

  I could not keep quiet. ‘What are you saying?’

  Reverend James pressed his fingers together in a prayerful (and I thought, sanctimonious) pose. ‘After a lifetime of battling him, you come to recognise his tactics.’

  I jumped to my feet. ‘Come on! So Satan is prowling the castle killing people. Of course! Satan is the murderer.’ I realised I was shouting. I sat down again, all eyes wide on me.

  Linda glared, but her husband seemed unperturbed at my outburst. ‘Yes, Rafe, yes,’ he said, ‘and I am not ashamed to say it. In the spiritual world, a battle rages between the forces of good and evil.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ I folded my arms.

  I felt a deft kick on my shin. Emily leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, her meaning clear. But I could not stop. The rage flowed out of me. All those years of repressed anger while listening to this man proselytising. I took a deep breath. Tried to restrain my temper. ‘Let me get this clear: the world is controlled by darkness and light, God and Satan, each pulling strings, each intimately interested in human affairs, involved in the battle for our immortal souls. And if you, Reverend James, are correct, God and Satan are complicit in disrupting our reunion this Christmas by playing with symbols and numerology. Give me a break.’ I flopped back in my chair. To think that as a teenager I had believed all this, had been gripped by the cult’s powerful ideas. How easy it was to see the world this way! Angels of light. Demons of darkness. Satan, roaming like a lion seeking whom he may devour. My fingers found the object buried in my pocket. I needed to take matters into my own hands. Without the meddling of God or Satan.

  As a group, our suspicions bred like fungus. I locked onto Reverend James; he locked onto me. Alison narrowed her eyes whenever I turned in her direction, and Linda shrank back into herself if she sensed my eyes upon her. Danny stuttered. Suzanne tried to hide she was biting her nails. Emily cat-stared, watching everyone.

  The original plan for the day was meditation, prayer and sermons. But I was not going to stick around for that. We were all on edge, no doubt wondering who among us was the murderer, or whether a stranger lurked in the shadows. I pushed back in my chair, intent on returning to my room to order my thoughts.

  ‘Where are you going, Rafe?’ said Reverend James. ‘I think we should all stick together so there’s less chance of…’ He trailed off.

  ‘I’m not feeling well. I need to lie down for a while.’

  I felt them watching me intently as I left. Every few steps, I checked to be sure no one was following me. I went directly to the tower, pulled out the key ring I had found in Stephen’s back pocket. One key was for Stephen’s room, I was sure; the other for the guillotine room. And my guess was that the third unlocked the door to Glen’s room. The first key I tried fitted and Glen’s door swung open.

  I pulled it shut and locked it behind me. The room was ice cold, and the balcony doors rattled. I tested my step before peering over the balcony. Ran my finger along where the balcony railing had broken off. I expected rotten wood, an uneven crack, but instead I found a clean cut. I was not a builder nor an engineer, but even I knew enough to see that this was no act of God, or of nature, or of structural fatigue.

  I looked below. The body was now completely buried in snow and I would not be able to tell where Glen had fallen if I hadn’t made markers the day before.

  I searched the room for the basket used to collect the cell phones. It lay on its side against the couch, empty. Not only had the killer murdered Glen, he – or she – had made sure no one could alert authorities.

  Which suggested that someone in our midst was a brutal, cold, calculating murderer. But who?

  Maybe Glen spurned Linda and this was revenge retaliation.

  Maybe Reverend James planned all this to dispose of his wife’s lover.

  Or maybe they were working together.

  Another suspect came to mind. It was hard to imagine how Suzanne had anything to do with this terrible crime. But she did. She too had been entangled with Glen’s emotions. Letters and emails had been exchanged over time. And even though she had come to me in terror and shown me the note that said her life was in danger, this could have been a clever way to establish her alibi.

  My philosophical training in healthy scepticism taught me to trust nothing, no one, and to be suspicious of appearances and hasty assumptions. To go against the grain of my emotional prejudices.

  I scanned the room and noticed that everything of Glen’s was gone. As if they wanted to obliterate him entirely. This was a carefully planned crime. And whoever it was had deliberately isolated us in the castle. Murdered Stephen. And would strike again.

  The second key let me in to Stephen’s room. The place was neatly ordered. All his clothes were folded neatly in the dresser. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

  But he feared something, or someone. He knew something. He had been planning to show me something. The guillotine? But if his killer had gone to such dramatic lengths to silence him, he would have also cleaned out anything incriminating from his room. It was hard to imagine that the person who killed Glen was not the same person who killed Stephen. This was a serial murder, I was certain.

  The only incongruity about this room was the bed. It was unmade, the duvet turned back, as if Stephen had just gone out for a pee, and meant to return soon.

  I looked for signs of distress, for any preparation for what was to come. Did he have any forewarning? His Bible was in the torture museum, which meant he must have taken that with him. Perhaps the evidence was inside. He had gone there to name the killer, I was sure of it. There must have been evidence in the torture museum he was going to show me. I picked up his pillow to look underneath and noticed a spot of blood on the white cotton pillowcase. It could have been from a shaving cut or a scratch. But my thoughts raced to the small
wound I had found on his neck.

  He had been drugged, I surmised, before the execution. But how the killer had moved him from here to the torture museum was still a mystery.

  Carefully locking the door to Stephen’s room behind me, I checked for unwelcome followers before sneaking along the corridor to the museum. Once there, I was loath to go in. My stomach clenched as I opened the door and saw the dead body and severed head. But something in this room was a clue pointing to the killer’s identity. I had to go through with this.

  The Bible lay where we had left it. I picked it up, leafed through it. Stephen’s name was written on the inside cover and many pages had been dog-eared over the years. I looked again at I Corinthians, chapter 13, verse 13, which was circled with red pen: ‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.’

  What kind of a message was that?

  A search of the room offered no further clues. What could he possibly have meant by ‘evidence’? The only thing I could think of was that he had gone along with the killer’s plans to rent this castle, to open the torture museum and to assign each of The Twelve one of the days of Christmas, without realising the killer’s real intentions. Perhaps he had thought the elaborate plans were a game – until Glen’s death.

  I heard a thump in the corridor and the creak of a wooden floorboard. I quickly stepped into the shadows and stood still. Above me, the eight dummies swayed slightly in the draught. I waited for thirty seconds, and then squeezed out of the room into the corridor. There was no one there. But I could sense someone here, holding his breath, hiding in the shadows. I had to get back to the others. I locked the door, pocketed the keys, and walked briskly along the corridor, down the stairs and towards the living room, ready for the moment someone would pounce on me. The hair on the nape of my neck stood up. I was sure someone was behind me.

  But when I entered the room, they were all present. Emily looked up. Suzanne also glanced up at me, as anxious as when she had met me at the front door the day before. Linda glared at me as she rose from the table and headed for the kitchen. Confused, I did a mental head count, looked behind me, as if the presence I had felt would reveal themselves. Nothing.