The Reaper's Touch

by Robert Southworth

  ***

  The dusty track, flanked by a thick line of trees on either side, was far longer than William expected. The serpent-like route meandered along for at least two miles. Finally, the driver slowed the horses and the carriage swung around. The sudden movement brought a large cottage came into view through the carriage window. William guessed that the building had remained unchanged for many years; its thick black timbers standing in contrast to the white walls. The heavy thatched roof was in good repair, which led William to believe its owner was of substantial means. He stroked the pistol, which was now back in his jacket pocket, as a final preparation. He eyed the courtyard and then the windows throughout the building in search for signs of life. When it was not forth coming, he knew that he must take a closer look.

  “What do you think, William?”

  “The thatched roof looks well maintained, the plastered newly rendered. It looks like the owner has some substantial means. And it’s very quiet – almost too quiet.” The only sound came from crows in a nearby field. Their eerie calls attracted William’s stare. A futile scarecrow stood as a lacklustre attempt to fend off the shadowy winged demons. William was surprised that the birds flocked to the scarecrow, rather than take flight. He shook the image from his mind and stepped towards the cottage. His eyes focused on the building and the fact the door to the cottage had been left ajar. William retrieved his pistol, and nodded towards Jack, to do the same. He was about to enter the cottage, but something made him turn around. He stretched out a hand and forced his friend's pistol to point at the floor.

  “Best aim it at the floor,” he whispered.

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “You, I trust, but your aim is a different matter.” William smiled and then cautiously pressed against the door to the cottage. No movement or sound came from within; this confirmed that William would need to enter, not knowing what lay within the shadows. “Keep your distance, Jack. Don’t enter until I signal.” He peered inside before committing his entire body to the gloom. Despite, the brilliant sunshine of the day, the interior of the cottage remained cool and dull. William guessed that the opposite side of the building would allow far more light through its small windows. He glanced around; a rocking chair sat next to a large fireplace. The grate had lost its warmth and flame long ago. He called out, conscious that if no crime had been committed, then he was trespassing on someone’s privacy. He received no reply and once more he called out, this time with a little more vigour. Again, the only sound that came was from the crows. Finally, he signalled for Jack to enter the cottage. The two of them searched each of the building’s rooms. Eventually, they were forced to accept the fact that it was empty, and devoid of any sign of a struggle.

  As they stepped out into the open air, William was confused as to his next course of action. He began to feel frustrated; the cawing of the crows did not improve his mood. “Bastard things.” He stomped towards the birds.

  “You can come out now, Bessie,” Jack called to her.

  As her feet found firm ground, she observed William moving purposely towards the nearby field.

  “Where is he going?” she asked.

  “I think William Harkness, former heroic captain of the 66th of foot, has declared war on a bunch of birds.” Jack laughed. “Mind, they are evil-looking bastards.”

  William didn’t know what type of crop it was that he delicately picked his way. He was only partly aware of Jack laughing to his rear, for some reason, his focus was on the scarecrow. The motionless interpretation of a man designed to strike fear in the hearts of the birds was failing completely. He did not know why but he felt compelled to ascertain the reason. As he approached, the birds still refused to take flight. They disregarded him in the same manner as they did the static pest control. His stare fell on the largest of the crows, perched nonchalantly on the scarecrow’s shoulder. He could not take his eyes from the back of the crow’s neck; slick ebony feathers covered a deceptively powerful neck. Then the bird turned its head, and William felt the acrid taste of bile rising in his throat. The bird was staring back, not simply with its own eyes, which were as dark as the pit of hell but also with the remnants of a human eye hanging from its razor sharp beak. William felt its gaze upon him; without seeing, it looked into his soul. William could not contain his horror any longer; he crouched down into the crop and vomited. He retched until his insides screamed that they had no more to give.

  It was some moments before he regained his composure. Raising a hand, he used his sleeve to wipe the spittle from his chin. He drew his pistol, and then fired all the barrels of his pepperbox into the air. Suddenly, the crows understood fear. A black crowd rose from the field leaving William alone with the gruesome scarecrow. William listened to the cries of fright, then the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps as they crushed the delicate crops. He turned quickly to see both Jack and Bessie moving at speed.

  “No!” he called out and held up his hand. “Bessie, return to the carriage. Jack, go to the cottage, fetch some sort of cloth.” Jack stopped immediately and without questioning grasped Bessie by the hand.

  “What is it?” Bessie asked.

  “Now is not the time for questions, it is the time to listen,” Jack replied.

  William watched as Jack, having deposited Bessie safely back at the carriage. Moments later, he was crossing the field with a large piece of bedding.

  As he approached, William held up a hand. “Be warned Jack; this is not a pretty sight.”

  Jack nodded his acceptance of the warning and moved in closer. The figure before him was barely recognisable as a human being. The hands were nailed to the scarecrow's post in a grotesque crucifixion style. The ground around the body had been turned a dark crimson colour, leaving the no doubt that the victim was bled similarly to Kostya. It was also clear that many of the creatures that inhabited the location had found the body to be a source of excellent nourishment.

  “God have mercy.” Jack gulped, clearly fighting the urge to vomit.

  “I did warn you.”

  “I am not sure any eyes can be prepared for a sight such as this,” Jack replied, taking in large gulps of air to prevent him vomiting. I wonder who he is – was,” he corrected himself.

  “The owner of the cottage presumably. There is little remaining of the victim's face, so I see little reason to put Bessie through the horror of witnessing this damned slaughter.”

  “What are we going to do with the body?”

  “Wrap it and then carry it to the cottage. I want you to take the carriage back to the city. Bessie is to return home, then you must inform Abberline if he has not yet departed for his other duties, oh, and don’t forget Dr Fitzgerald. She must return with you, do not take no for an answer.” As William finished speaking he and Jack lifted the body free of the cross. Both men tried their best not to look at the body as they felt the loose flesh within their hands. As they laid the figure on the cloth, they realised that one of the feet was missing. William glanced about, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  “A fox perhaps?” Jack suggested.

  “A definite possibility. I expect every creature for miles around has had a bite.”

  ∞∞∞

  William and Jack crossed the field struggling with the now wrapped corpse. However, when they reached the firmer ground afforded by the dirt track, the task became easier. They crossed over the small courtyard between cottage and carriage. They tried their best to ensure that the cloth remained in place, doing their best to hide it from Bessie’s fragile eyes. Considering the weight of the body and the distance travelled they did well to reach the door to the cottage before William lost his footing. All three ended up sprawled on the floor. The mangled hand of the victim slipped from the cloth. William tried to rise and prevent Bessie from observing the grotesque sight. However, to his surprise, a slender hand reached down and tucked the monstrosity back beneath the cloth. William had been so occupied with hiding the victim from the former maid, he had not realise
d that Bessie had left the carriage.

  “I am sorry Bessie; we tried to hide this from you.”

  Bessie gave a smile that was filled with a kind of pity. “This is nothing; before my father passed he used to help prepare bodies for burial. I was only a child, but he taught me not to fear the dead. Even when the day came that I was staring at my father’s lifeless body, I did not feel fear - only sadness.” She placed a hand on the cloth which covered the head of the victim. “I saw many people who had been torn violently from this world. My father taught me that even though these poor souls had been shown no dignity at the end of their life, we could at least grant them that honour, in death.”

  “Still, you are not dressed for this kind of work,” William replied, trying not to register shock at the intelligence and strength shown by the young woman. He was staring at her as he spoke, but in his peripheral vision he observed something else. “Thank you for your help, Bessie, but I need you to return to the carriage now.”

  “What is it William?” Jack whispered as Bessie returned to the carriage.

  “I saw a figure move in the window. It was only a glimpse but someone was there.”

  ∞∞∞

  The two men heaved the body onto the table’s surface. As William stepped back, he placed his finger against his lips instructing Jack to be quiet. He then bent down and began to remove his boots. “When I am ready, I want you to make as much noise as possible. I will venture upstairs. Give me a second or two and then go out into the courtyard and pretend you’re talking to me in the kitchen.”

  “Why take the risk?”

  “Hopefully, my arrival will be a surprise.” He nodded when he was ready and Jack began to slam doors, and scrape furniture across the timbered floor. William left him to it and silently, began to climb the staircase. With each step, he strained to hear movement from the upper level. When he reached the landing, he came to a halt. William listened. He could hear Jack out in the courtyard, speaking loudly, as though he were talking to someone and they were talking back. The ruse worked. Through a crack in the door to one of the rooms, William spied a shadow. Moments later, William was rushing into the room his pistol grasped in his right hand.

  William froze. He was unprepared to see the figure to his front. The momentary pause gave the figure the chance to hurl a candlestick in his direction and then bolt for the door. William, however, quickly recovered in time to grasp the collar of the would-be escapee.

  “Get off! I didn’t see anything – don’t kill me.”

  “Calm down!” William struggled to restrain what he now knew to be a lad of no more than 12 years of age.

  “Leave me!” the boy squealed.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” William was forced to lift the boy bodily from the floor and carry him to a chair. “Sit there and just listen. My name is William Harkness. I hunt the men who killed the man downstairs. I have no wish to harm you, if I did, you would already be dead.”

  After some time had passed the boy ceased his struggling. He stared at William, clearly trying to decide whether to trust the man to his front. Eventually, he began to speak.

  “He sent me inside when two could be seen coming up the lane. We ‘ardly ever receive guests. I think he knew they meant him harm.”

  “You saw the killers?”

  “I heard the scream. I wanted to help, but I was scared.” The boy sobbed, clearly ashamed of his own perceived cowardice. “I couldn’t – I just couldn’t. I should have helped him!”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alfred, but most call me Alfie, sir,” The boy continued to sob.

  “Well, you listen to me, Alfie. If you had gone to help your friend, then you would be dead, too. So, put that from your mind and tell me about your friend.”

  “It was Mr. Stand, a kind gentleman who took me in after my Da, upped and left.”

  “Left?”

  “My Da and I used to travel around looking for work to pay for lodgings. Mr. Stand let us stay and do a few tasks about his land. I woke one morning to find my Da had run off. He drinks Mr. Harkness, sir and he can disappear for weeks at a time.”

  “And Mr. Stand let you stay?”

  “Yes, he said he liked the company,” he paused and then added, “he seemed lonely.”

  “So, when did the men arrive?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Would you recognise these men, if you were to see them again?”

  “I have no wish to see them again, but I won’t ever forget their faces.” The boy grimaced.

  William paused for a moment; finally he had a witness who could prove useful. A witness that could identify one or more of the killers. However, if the lad disappeared now he doubted the killers would ever know that he even existed. His safety aside, young Alfie could be the key to the whole investigation. He felt a pang of guilt as he decided on the right course of action. William took the boy gently by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Tell me, Alfie, do you want these men who hurt Mr. Stand to pay?”

  “They should be strung up like rabbits.”

  “Then I will need your help, Alfie. I’d like you to travel to London with my friends.” William had already decided that it would not be possible to transport the body in the carriage and he would not leave it unguarded in the cottage. “When I return, we will track down these men and they will answer for their crimes. Will you help me, Alfie?” The boy did not reply, the fear of seeing the men again was etched on his face. However, after what seemed like an age Alfie nodded his head in acceptance of the task.

  William instructed Jack to take the lad to Slaughter Yard and ensure he was placed in Gossup’s care. He retrieved some supplies from the carriage and then walked back to the cottage. He stepped inside and looked at the shrouded body on the table. He sighed - he knew the carriage would not be back for many hours, if at all that day; spending a night among the dead was not what he had planned when he rose that morning.

  Chapter 13

  William closed the door to the cottage. He turned and looked at the shape beneath the cloth that lay on the table. He wondered if Stand had a family that might miss him. It was no way for a man to pass from the world. As he did so, he casually unwrapped the cloth, which held the provisions he had collected from the carriage. Looking down he spied bread, cheese, and a bottle of his favourite whiskey. “Obadiah, you old dog, you know me better than I know myself.” He looked once more at the dead body and then down at the food. “This is a meal best enjoyed alone.”

  He walked into the next room. The cottage was not luxurious by any means, but it had a loved and comfortable feel. The furniture was not new, but was of a decent quality. William moved a small table so that it nestled next to the most comfortable-looking chair. He placed the provisions on the table and took a long drink from the whiskey bottle. Before allowing himself to rest, he started a fire in the small fireplace. It took longer than he expected, but soon the flames began to warm a day that had already passed its warmest hour. Finally, he came to rest in the chair. He removed his boots and spent some time rubbing his upper thigh. He had been wounded while serving in the British army more than once, but it was this wound that plagued him the most. An Afghan warrior’s bullet had torn into the meaty flesh on his thigh; it had complained bitterly ever since. The bread and cheeses made an excellent partner for the whiskey. When his stomach was full, he lay back in the chair and allowed the tiredness to wash over his aching limbs.

  ∞∞∞

  Isaac Naismith stopped at the entrance to the Lyceum. He looked at Tom, placing a hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “I have a task for you; I shall talk to Henry Irving alone.”

  “But William said we should not separate.”

  “Do not worry; we shall both be within the Lyceum. I want you to question those that work behind the stage.” Isaac noticed the look of complete dread cross Tom’s face. “Dressed like this,” Naismith motioned towards his quality suit, “those people will have no interest in talking
to me. They are far more likely to tell secrets to someone they see as an equal.” Tom looked down at his own attire, and a red blush rose to his cheeks. Isaac noticed, “Tom I did not mean to cause offense I merely meant that some will see me as part of the privileged few. That is their view, not mine. A man is far more than the cloth on his back or the coin in his pocket. Speaking of which,” he pulled some coin from a purse and placed it in Tom’s hand, “some still may need to be convinced to share what they know. You can do this Tom. Besides, you must have visited this place in your role as Kostya’s guard, they will remember your face. The young man reluctantly nodded his acceptance.

  The two men walked into the acclaimed theatre. After declaring their identity, a young boy was called to show Tom to the backstage. However, Isaac was shown into the theatre proper; he was directed towards a shadowy figure that sat in the eighth row. The Theatre was dark and gloomy so, identifying the man was impossible. It didn’t help that his guide had disappeared without uttering a single word. Isaac was left no alternative but to press onwards. He nearly went crashing to the floor more than once due to the poor light. Finally, and somewhat relieved he succeeded in reaching the row in which the figure sat.