Chalice of the Dead #2

02 – Cole: The Case

THE carriage had been rumbling over the wet cobblestones for only a few minutes, yet it felt like an eternity. Restlessly, Cole drummed his fingers on his case. He was burning to dive into this case at last, for he needed it more than ever. It was his last chance, and every silent minute felt like time lost from the investigation.
His desperation had grown so great that he had even brought along the woman he intended to impress with his success.
If he failed here, it would be over for good, and there was no way back to his former profession. He had closed that door on himself years ago.
“Mr Dellaware, I don’t mean to press, but what can you tell me about the case so far?” Cole sked, unwilling to wait until they reached the police station.
The inspector stroked his moustache and dismissed the question with a polite wave. “Everything is in the file in my office. Every detail recorded, in strict chronological order and is available to you.”
“I’ll read it, of course, but I’m interested in your personal assessment. You worked on these cases. You must have formed an opinion.” Cole knew well enough that reports contained only what superiors wished to read. The true details came either from witnesses’ lips or whispered from police officers behind closed doors.
Dellaware understood at once. He twisted his moustache, as if trying to wring out his inner tension. “You want to know what I think?” he asked, visibly hesitant, like someone rarely believed.
Cole nodded. “Feel free to speak openly.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to make of all this.”
“Why not?”
“Because these mummies are inexplicable. They shouldn’t even exist!”
Cole glanced briefly at Diana, hoping she might have something to add. But he would never press her. The beautiful young woman was sensitive and shy, qualities hardly expected when visiting her at work.
But to him she was an angel, a muse, a lighthouse in the turmoil of his life. Finding his way into her heart was his single motivation for tackling even the most hopeless cases, in the hope of sparking her interest
. Even if it was only her interest in the corpses he carried to her dissecting table from particularly tricky cases.
Diana was the daughter of a famous physician, and her expectations for a future husband were high – or rather: her father’s expectations were enormous.
The only acceptable candidates were men of considerable wealth or a distinguished career.
Fortunately, the father was not here, and Cole glimpsed a chance for a dinner with Diana. Unlike in Windchurch, she couldn’t hide behind excuses here. Perhaps this was his last chance; if he failed to solve this case, it would truly be over.
“Diana, my dear,” he said gently, inviting her into the conversation, “you are rather more knowledgeable than I. How can a body become mummified?”
The young woman puffed her cheeks and started to answer twice. Cole smiled faintly; he found it charming how she searched for the right words.
Like him, she disliked saying anything that might be wrong.
But Dellaware spared her from having to speak. He leaned forward and cast both of them a meaningful look. “These are not normal mummies. Otherwise Mr Craven would have called in an Egyptologist or another expert in the field.” He beckoned Cole closer with a finger, as though afraid of his next words: “The deceased had been seen the day before, and none of them seemed to have the devil at their heels. By the next morning, they were dead; completely dried out, as if they had lain in salt for years.”
Mummified within twelve to twenty-four hours? Impossible! The simplest solution would be that the bodies had been swapped to create a false trail. But Cole couldn’t imagine that hadn’t already been considered.
“Was there any trace of salt?” Diana asked.
Dellaware shook his head. “Nothing at all. Only dust.”
“What kind of dust?”
“From the mummies, of course,” the inspector explained. “They were so dry that their skin broke at every touch, and it… um… dusted.”
Cole looked at Diana, questioning whether she could make sense of this description, but she too probably struggled with the alleged timeframe. No adult mummified in a single day.
It had to be a deception. But he kept that thought to himself. It would be difficult enough to search blindly for answers and still manage to impress Diana. She would tell her father everything, and her father would judge whether Cole was a suitable match.
If he voiced theories aloud, they had to be sound.
Diana leaned slightly toward the inspector. “Have you considered that it might be a disease?”
“A disease?” Glenn looked at her with concern. A faint pallor spread across his face as he sank back into his seat.
Impossible. Cole was no doctor, but he had never heard of a disease that drained all water from a body overnight. Even if it were so, there would have been traces left on the ground. In his view, everything had a logical explanation, though he had despaired over many cases. Criminals could be astonishingly inventive in hiding their tracks.
The inspector pursed his lips and stroked his moustache again.
“Best not to speak the word ‘disease’ too loudly.
The people are frightened enough as it is. Lately there’s even been talk of curses.”
Now that was truly superstitious nonsense. Cole shook his head. “Whoever started that rumour should be fired.”
Dellaware grinned. “That will be difficult with Judge McBridge.”
“The judge is fuelling fear of curses?” Diana asked in disbelief.
“How did the judge come to such an idea?” Cole asked, equally baffled. “Has he always been that superstitious?”
Glenn snorted. “It’s a strange story. Egon McBridge has been our judge for ten years. He was always a down-to-earth man, strict but fair. He never believed in anything like witchcraft, magic, or such nonsense. But suddenly, he began to take quite a liking to it.”
“When did this change become noticeable?” Cole pressed further.
“Well,” Glenn stroked his moustache again, “it’s hard to say exactly. It crept in gradually over the year.”
“Did the judge suffer an accident, or something of the sort?” Diana asked.
“Head injuries or other trauma can sometimes cause a change in behaviour.”
Glenn grinned again. “That would explain a lot in this town, but not Mr McBridge’s behaviour.”
If no illness was involved, then something else had triggered the shift. Money, perhaps.
“You won’t find anything in the file about our judge’s change in character,” Dellaware said, beckoning Cole over once more and continuing in a conspiratorial tone. “In my opinion, it started around the beginning of the year, when our librarian, Mr Alliston, retired early for health reasons.”
“Were they close?” Cole asked.
“No, quite the opposite. They were like cat and dog.
It even went so far that the judge was banned from the library. Then Alliston left, and with the new librarian, Mr Woods, Judge McBridge got on famously from the start. One might think they had known each other for years,” the inspector said. “They began meeting regularly in the library, and whatever they did there, it turned our honourable judge’s head. Since then, he’s spoken more and more of ghosts and witches.”
Very peculiar. Who would benefit from turning the judge into a superstitious fool? “Perhaps he became obsessed with something. There are plenty of tales based on real events,” Cole mused aloud.
“Like those horror novels with cursed dolls and such?” Diana interjected.
“For example.” Yet Cole wasn’t so foolish as to dismiss the judge’s behavior as mere coincidence or gullibility. When a level-headed man suddenly immersed himself in ghost stories and stoked fear throughout the town, it warranted investigation. Whether this Mr Woods had any influence on him was something Cole meant to discover in person.
In Cole’s experience, though, it wouldn’t be the first judge to veer into conspiracies and corrupt dead-ends. Usually, they followed hidden powers behind the scenes and were handsomely paid for it. But for what purpose would the judge spread this unrest? Who profited from it?
“Did this change of interest affect his work as a judge?” Sometimes the verdicts themselves betrayed who was pulling the strings.
Dellaware shook his head, then nodded as if unable to decide. “He always judged by the law; until it came to the witch.”
Witch? Cole wondered whether he had misheard. Diana looked just as puzzled, and they exchanged a questioning glance.
Even the inspector seemed to doubt his own words, rubbing his face as if all this speculation had exhausted him. “Yes, that,” he sighed heavily, “I never understood it either. Nancy had been our quirky old ‘village witch’ for over sixty years. People went to have their fortunes told, or to buy some potion when the hens weren’t laying enough eggs. She was completely harmless, and I think most people simply visited her to unburden their daily worries. Rumour has it even Sir Jones went to her from time to time.”
The name rang a bell in Cole’s mind. It had appeared in the newspaper. “Sir Jones?”
“That’s the man killed by the dogs. That’s where it all began to escalate in the town. Shortly after, the first mummies appeared, and the townspeople demanded someone to blame.”
The circle closed.
McBridge stoked fears of curses and sorcery, and then presented the well-known village witch as the source of all evil.
Cole looked out the window and immediately spotted a few armed men on the sidewalks. Seems the so-called culprit hadn’t satisfied the townsfolk for long, he thought bitterly. “Can I speak with the witch?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Why not?”
“She was killed.”
“Who murdered her?” Diana asked. “Surely not the judge?”
Dellaware shook his head immediately. “Never. Witch Nancy vanished without a trace from her cell just two days after her conviction. McBridge gave Craven through hell, demanding she be found. And she was, but not in the way the judge wanted. They found her body in the moor.” He drew a finger across his throat, describing without words the old woman’s fate. “Just three days ago.”
“No sign of the murderer?” Cole asked.
“None. Absolutely nothing.”
“Can I see the body?” Diana wanted to know.
“I’m afraid not. She was cremated the same day.”
So quickly? Very unusual. “I would like to read the indictment,” Cole requested. Somehow, it had a bad taste. No one simply vanished from a cell. Someone had intervened, and Cole would bet his eye there were accomplices within the police.
The inspector nodded. “It’s at the court. We can go there tomorrow.”
“Have there been any more mummifications since Nancy’s death?” Diana asked, which Dellaware denied.
“The mummies appeared between Sir Jones’s death and Nancy’s conviction. But as the dogs are still being sighted, it may only be a matter of time before more incidents occur. Sometimes there are several days between them.”
“What can you tell me about the mummified victims?” Cole pressed on. “Who were they?”
Dellaware shrugged. “Ordinary people. The bookbinder Mr Henson, his wife, and a few days later, Notary Flynn.”
“Are there witnesses?”
“Yes and no,” Dellaware replied. “The Hensons had a sixteen-year-old daughter who disappeared the night of the mummification. We have been searching
for Emily ever since, but so far only vague traces of her remain. Mr Craven hopes you will assist in finding her. She’s a crucial witness.”
“What makes you so sure she is still in Fenhole?” By now she could be miles away, and a search of the surrounding countryside would be pointless.
“There have been thefts at several farms along the forest edge.” Dellaware ticked them off on his fingers. “The Morris Farm, the Stubbs family, the Elliott family, and the Blue Marsh Farm.”
“What was stolen?”
“Bread, fruit, cod liver oil, blankets, coal, matches, cider, and smoked sausage.”
All food and useful items needed to survive a cold autumn in the forest. Emily had no intention of fleeing altogether, so the chances were good that she would be found, or come to her own conclusion to seek out the police.
“I believe the murderer is watching her, and that’s why she doesn’t dare return to town,” Dellaware said. “But the fog keeps the search parties from finding her.”
If that were true, it cleared Nancy of every suspicion. Had Nancy been the culprit, Emily would have come out of hiding after her death. The fact she remained hidden meant the murderer was still free.
“This bookbinder, Mr Henson, did he have any business in the library?“ Cole asked, still focused on the new librarian.
“Certainly. He worked there.”
What a coincidence!
“In the months before Harry Henson’s death, there were frequent problems in the library,” the inspector continued.
“I don’t know the precise nature of them. But Harry often called in sick afterward and stopped coming to work. Rumor has it he didn’t get along with Mr Woods. Things apparently escalated when Mr Woods decided to dissolve Alliston’s private collection rather than deliver it to him in his retirement home.”
So the retired librarian was still alive. That presented an excellent chance to question him about Mr Woods and his relations with the judge. “Where does Mr Alliston live now?” Cole asked.
“You’ll have to ask Mr Woods about that. He is in contact with Alliston.”
Well, Cole wouldn’t be so foolish as to let Woods know he was sniffing about in the library. If Mr Woods and the judge were in league, then Cole had best tread carefully. Perhaps there were other staff at the library who could provide information about Alliston.
Then there was the other death. “And the other mummy? You said a notary?”
“Indeed, Notary Flynn. He died two days after the Hensons, but the two had never met and he had nothing to do with the library either,” Dellaware added, as if reading Cole’s thoughts.
This shook his theory. “Were Flynn’s clients checked?”
“No. Mr Craven ordered that nothing be touched for now. A new notary will arrive in a few days to review the files.”
That would take far too long. “Who were Flynn’s last clients?”
Dellaware beckoned Cole closer again and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Sir William Jones and the lawyer Mr John Jones.”
Cole raised his eyebrows. “John Jones? Was he related to William Jones?”
“No. They just happen to share the same surname. But another coincidence: both had appointments with our notary weeks earlier. Sir Jones wanted to buy a large piece of moorland to expand his horse breeding. Mr John Jones had a similar idea, which led to a dispute. In the end, Sir Jones acquired the land and was killed right there by the dogs.”
“Interesting,” Cole murmured, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. That closed the circle around these incidents. What remained missing was a concrete clue linking the dogs and the mummies. Curses and witches wouldn’t help here.
“Just a day after Sir Jones’ death, Mr Jones apparently visited Mr Flynn again, claiming the land for himself. But Sir Jones had already bequeathed it,” Dellaware continued.
“To whom?”
“That should also be in Sir Jones’s file. But that–”
“Hasn’t yet been reviewed. I know,” Cole couldn’t quite suppress his annoyance at such bungling police work. How could Craven simply leave all the evidence untouched and wait for a new notary to arrive? That only gave the murderer more time to cover his tracks! Cole would have to handle those files himself. “And shortly after Mr Jones’s visit, the notary died as well?”
“Yes, but…” Dellaware rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. Cole suspected something very important was coming – something he would likely find missing in the case files. “
In the very night Flynn was murdered, Mr Jones took his own life. For my taste, it is no coincidence that he hanged himself on the very plot they had fought over.”
What was buried there? Gold? Oil?
Now it mattered more than ever to find out who had inherited Sir Jones’s estate.
He would bet his eye that it would lead him to McBridge or Mr Woods. “Has Mrs Jones been questioned?”
“Mr Jones took his own life, and Chief Constable Craven sees no need to investigate further or disturb the widow in her grief.”
Cole raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “The Chief Constable sees no connection? Then where are Mr Jones’s papers? Why is this land so important that two men died over it?”
Dellaware shrugged helplessly. “Those things are probably still in Mr Flynn’s office.”
Cole recalled Fenhole’s police work quite differently. He had once thought highly of their competence; but that now seemed wholly vanished. Even in his time as a constable, such incompetence would have been unthinkable! Why was no one following such obvious leads? Why was no one taking the initiative?
“Has the police at least determined why Mr Jones took his own life?”
“Mrs Jones said her husband had seemed very depressed and melancholy lately.” Glenn shrugged. “But Craven ordered us not to bother her. We only heard that there is a farewell letter.”
“Where is it?”
“With Mrs Jones, of course. I haven’t read it, but Chief Constable Craven has. It supposedly mentioned financial troubles and despair.”
Craven forbade an inordinate amount, stalling the investigation at every turn. Everything about the Chief Constable screamed of a cover-up. If he too was involved in the murders, then Cole had to ask himself why Craven had summoned him to Fenhole in the first place. What was he really expecting of him?
Somehow, Cole had the feeling he was being sent in as a pawn. His instinct urged him to abandon the case, for everything about it screamed trap. Yet to do so would cost him everything – not just his career, but also any hope of winning Diana’s heart.
A dangerous position indeed. Cole glanced at Diana. The young woman listened with interest but largely refrained from speculating.
No. I must see this through. Yet he would do well to treat the police with great caution for now.
“Was the body examined?” Diana asked after Cole had fallen silent.
“No,” Dellaware replied. “Mrs Jones refused. She didn’t want her husband cut open – which is her right. The only person who can tell you anything about the bodies is our undertaker, Mr Fridman. He cremated Sir Jones, Mr Jones, the witch, and the three mummies.”
And thus destroyed all the evidence.
“I want to speak with him,” Diana demanded.
“Certainly, my dear,” Cole said with a smile.
Anything you wish.
The carriage stopped in front of a large brick building, which sat like a solid block among the smaller timbered houses. Narrow, tall windows lined the street side, and above the heavy double doors, the letters
Fenhole Police Department were carved in stone.
“Follow me.” Glenn stepped out of the carriage and offered Diana his hand. A courtesy Cole would gladly have shown her himself, had he not been seated on the wrong side of the cab.
A damp, chilly wind struck him, and he had to hold onto his top hat until they reached the dry interior. Inside, they were met by the clamor of countless angry, anxious, or concerned citizens, each seeking help and justice from the municipal police. Complaints were made, curses were shouted, demands for punishment cried out. A grimy thug cursed and spat in every direction as officers pushed him forward. Uniformed men bustled through the crowd, taking reports, listening to grievances, or attempting to intervene. A dead black yard dog lay on a table, surrounded by several men gesticulating wildly and blaming each other.
It was clear that Dellaware hadn’t exaggerated. The police station had indeed become a madhouse. Cole had almost looked forward to standing once more, after all these years, in that tidy open-plan office. But now, one could barely see the other side of the room. A particularly large, rotund man with a double chin and balding head went into a rage and knocked over a constable. Whistles shrieked immediately, and two more officers rushed forward to beat him with their truncheons.
Cole watched Diana with concern. She tried to avoid the furious crowd, clutching her suitcase as if it were a shield between herself and the dark figures surrounding her. This was no place for a young, beautiful woman like her, and he already felt a twinge of regret for bringing her along. He stepped protectively beside her, keeping an eye on the agitated crowd, as they followed Dellaware up a staircase into a long, paneled corridor.
Plain doors alternated on both sides until the inspector finally stopped before one and unlocked it.
“In the case file, you will find everything the police have officially recorded.” He turned to Cole and Diana once more. “I will also come to the matter of the hunt. But I can tell you now that Craven is on the verge of making his greatest mistake.”