Capítulo 2: Chapter 2 - the Roaring Lion
30th December
Brennon was not in the mood in the morning. Not only did the smell of the boiled corpse turn out to be extremely ubiquitous - yesterday, all who could, rushed off to patrol the streets, and the rest nailed to the open windows; so the truck drivers, having delivered to the police a couple of victims of the next drunken brawl, flatly refused to bring the bodies to the morgue. The deceased lay in the courtyard until morning, until the smell had disappeared, and when Broyd came upon them during an early detour of his possessions, the ceiling almost collapsed from his fierce cries. Of course, work in the police does not mean that the authorities should stumble upon the deceased at every turn, but Nathan could not sympathize with Broyd now. He mechanically read the reports of detectives on interrogations and the progress of the investigation in various cases, leaving notes in the margins for his subordinates. Finally, Brennon pushed away a stack of documents with a sigh when he realized that he was delving into the autopsy report, holding it upside down, put on his frock coat and headed for the morgue.
The hound was already there. He waved his tail in greeting and stared at the autopsy table again. It was covered with a dense canvas, and bones were laid out on it, like details from a disassembled toy. Judging by the color - father Grace's bones. On the next table, Brennon saw a mysterious device to which Longsdale clung like to his mother's chest.
"What do you have here?"
"Father Grace," said the consultant. "All that we managed to collect."
"Excellent," the Commissar grumbled grimly, imagining in paints the transfer of the remains to inconsolable relatives. "Well, why did you try to poison us with cadaveric fumes yesterday? What the hell is this on the table?"
"The microscope."
"Yours?"
"Mine."
"And why is it here?"
"I study bones," the consultant removed with a pair of tweezers some small bone that lay under a microscope. "Fortunately, I began to study from the bottom up, from the feet to the skull. Look," he thrust the commissar a bone along with a magnifying glass.
"A scratch," Nathan said after a long study.
"Not only here. This is a femur, and there is a scratch on it..." Longsdale fell silent, looking doubtfully at his interlocutor. The Commissar understood his doubts and shared:
"In short and simpler."
"This edge of the bone is part of the knee. Look further - on the tibia, also in the area of the knee joint, this scratch continues. And on the inside of the patella is the same mark."
"So we are looking at the victim's knee now?"
"On the left knee. But on the right - the same thing. The cuts on the left knee are deeper, but on the right tibia there is a scratch below, here."
"Hmmm," said the Commissar thoughtfully. "You say that someone cut our patter's knee tendons?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
"Firstly, to immobilize the victim. When the hamstring is cut, the leg folds, and the person loses the ability to walk. And secondly...
"Secondly, a pool of blood," Brennon said grimly. "Can you safely say that the priest was bleeding?"
"This is likely. There are bruising marks on the bones, but I have not yet found any other scratches or cuts. No head injuries."
"Where else are the bruising marks?"
"Here," the consultant ran a finger along the left arm and the left ribs. "Apparently, the left knee was cut first, and Father Grace fell to the left side, bruised arm and ribs more than on the right."
"Hm. It's strange. How could he let a man with a knife so close? How did this even happen? Did the killer creep up behind him on his lap?"
Longsdale rubbed his chin, his eyes fixed on the remains.
"I made plaster casts from scratches. They are not ready yet, but, it seems to me, we are dealing with a long double-edged blade. The strike was applied from behind, from left to right, judging by the scratch on the right tibia - somewhat at an angle, from top to bottom."
"Could the victim not notice this?"
The consultant shrugged.
"Well, how do you imagine this?" insisted the commissioner. "Here is our pater. Here the killer cuts his knee tendons. And the pater does not notice a man with a long knife? Judging by the position of the body, he died in the aisle between the benches, which can be seen entirely. By the way, how far could he crawl away with such wounds?"
"It depends on where you count it."
"Well, how long could he live?"
"Five to seven minutes. Both veins and arteries pass under the knee. And if he crawled, then the loss of blood was even faster."
Brennon scratched his beard.
"That is, it is unlikely that he was killed outside the church."
"Yes. Only if the killer himself brought the corpse there, but then a lot of blood would remain on the snow around."
"So, still in the church. But anyway - how can you not notice in a empty temple a person sneaking up on you? There the echo of steps spreads to every corner!"
Longsdale returned to the microscope and began to disassemble it.
"I can't answer you. Maybe Father Grace was immersed in prayer."
"Then he would be on his knees, and it would be difficult for the killer to get to his knee tendons."
"Well, he could have prayed while standing," Longsdale frowned. "By the way, what's with those bones?"
"It's still being collected. Kennedy said he would seek advice from his colleagues at the university. He is sure that these bones were in the temple long before the fire. And you?"
"Me?"
"You so insisted that no one enter the church. Have you changed your mind?"
"No," the consultant complained displeasedly, "but the church needs to be studied, and all the remains must be removed. Therefore, we have to take a chance. But promise me that any strange case, any disappearance - a person or an object, at least one drop of blood shed in the temple - and you will immediately remove all people from there."
"Alright, alright," the Commissar muttered in surprise. "A drop of blood? Are you seriously?"
"No, I'm joking!" Longsdale growled suddenly. Brennon jerked and exactly for a moment again saw that other man. This moment was enough for him to look into eyes burning with rage; the consultant blinked and calmly said: "This is not a reason for jokes, do not you think?"
"Uuuuh ..." the commissar drawled stupidly and sank into a chair, like a culp with rags. The hound looked at him from the bottom with a long, attentive, completely meaningful look.
31th December
Margaret Sheridan was curious like a cat. For seventeen years, mother, nannies, governesses and companions have not been able to eradicate this vice, although they repeated in chorus that such a curiosity is simply indecent for a young lady. Most of all, Miss Sheridan regretted that she hadn't slept through the fire, and yet from the windows of her room would have been such a view! For two days the girl was tormented by an unsatisfied thirst for knowledge, until she finally invented a suitable excuse to be near the church of St. Helena. Of course, her companion, Miss Thay, didn't really like that by the New Year it was necessary to buy garlands near "such a terrible place!" But Margaret knew perfectly well that Miss Thay would never miss the opportunity to collect as many fresh gossip about the fire.
Escaping the companion by the garland shop, Margaret hurried to the bridge. Small and not too wide, it was thrown through a narrow channel that separated the quarter where the burned church stood from the neighboring one. People crowded on the bridge, and Margaret began to work with her elbows to get closer to the interesting.
"What is there?" she eagerly asked some old woman.
"And God knows, kiddie. Nobody is allowed in there, only they take out something and take it out, wrapped in canvas. Nothing to see."
"Take out?" the girl asked in surprise. But what can be taken out of a burnt temple? Except that...
"Did someone die there?"
"They say Father Grace, the priest there. Did not have time to run out, poor fellow."
Margaret stood on tiptoe. For a moment, blackened walls flickered in front of her with gaping window openings, the policemen, who laid out something on a stretcher, covering it with canvases, and Mr. Kennedy. Then everything was blocked by someone's back. Margaret hissed in displeasure, somehow pushed past the tall gentleman, vindictively poking his elbow, and leaned over the railing. Mr. Kennedy was already talking to some gaunt old man; then both squatted beside the stretcher, Mr. Kennedy lifted the canvas, the old man pulled out a magnifying glass from his pocket and ducked under the cloth.
"What is there?" The girl whispered.
"Nobody knows, missy," said the freckled guy next to her. "It was such that now nothing is surprising..."
"What's happened? Was there anyone else except Father Grace?"
"Someone else is for sure," the tall gentleman muttered.
"I don't know that," the guy answered. "But it blazed - horror! The windows were knocked out, fire climbed out and burned the roof! The view was - well, like fingers were clenched. The roof then collapsed... Fire as many as a pillar rose!
Margaret climbed the parapet at the railing and began to move forward on it. She reached the end of the bridge and cautiously descended onto the sidewalk, covered with slippery porridge of snow and mud, which was mixed up by numerous onlookers.
The walls of the church were densely covered with soot, the portal burned out daughter; Margaret saw the door leaves at the steps. The roofs of the pair of bell towers also fell off, and the bells were not visible - it probably collapsed down. From her place, Miss Sheridan noticed the remains of the roof - part of it survived above the altar, but the cross was melted like a candle.
A cart arrived, and the policemen began to carefully lay a stretcher on it. Mr. Kennedy and his old friend went to the carriage, discussing something.
The fire had been flooded for a long time, but in the air there was a steady smell of the burnt. In the temple, everything was probably burnt out by the daughter, because even the sunlight pouring into the window holes did not illuminate anything, and Margaret seemed that the church was still covered inside with a continuous smoky veil.
The girl put her hand to her forehead, protecting her eyes from the sun. There was definitely something inside, although no one paid attention to it - the policemen worked near the cart, carefully placing the stretcher, Mr. Kennedy and his friend got into the carriage. The smell of burning intensified. Miss Sheridan felt something fluffy and soft pour on her face. She brushed it off, and the smeared streaks of ash remained on her light glove.
The tall gentleman beside her suddenly stepped back. Margaret stared perplexedly at the church, then at her glove. There, inside, an ash cloud swirled, it swayed in the window openings, in the portal, in the gaps of the roof. The girl looked around bewilderedly - could anyone really see? The people around were agitated, someone had already reached the bridge, the harnessed to the cart and the crew horses scaredly neighed.
"They took off the doors," muttered the gentleman beside Miss Sheridan. The girl looked back at him, and then a bell struck in the church.
"Lord, what is this?!" somebody screeched over Margaret's ear. After the first bell hit the second. They began to beat in a chaotic rhythm, from which the girl's heart sank, and her eyes darkened. She staggered back, snuggled up to the fence on the river bank and clamped her ears. The ringing of the bell, knocking a torn tremor out of the pavement, kept growing until at last a wild neighing cut through it. At the same time there was a many-voiced human cry, and the crowd rushed to the bridge.
The veil in Margaret's eyes was scattered, but the only thing she managed to see was a pair of horses, which, rolling their eyes furiously, rushed to the fence and dragged the carriage behind them.
"Mister Kennedy!!" the girl screeched. People rushed about in front of the bridge like hens; bay couple, scattering the rest of the crowd, jumped over the railing. The carriage hit the fence with such force that it shattered into pieces. The fence turned out of the ground and collapsed into the canal along with the carcass of the carriage.
Margaret slipped down from the shore - her support disappeared, and her legs went along the snow porridge. The girl screamed piercingly and waved her hands, trying to grab hold of the air. A cane suddenly flickered in front of her, and Margaret clung to it with all her might.
"My God..." she whispered only with her lips: her legs were still slipping along the steep bank, and the tall, thin gentleman was clutching his cane, and there was nothing to hold on to.
"S-s-s-sorry," the girl uttered indistinctly: he stood, leaning back heavily, holding her only by his own weight.
"Don't let go," he said suddenly, muttered something briefly and thrust his cane into the cobblestone with force. Margaret almost unclenched her hands in surprise. But, having finally felt at least some support, the girl scratched her legs along the shore, climbed out and fell into the hands of a completely unfamiliar man. The thought of how indecent it was died as soon as it was born.
"Lucky," he remarked muffledly. "Everyone was so eager to get to the bridge that they left us alone. Otherwise this flock of sheep would have pushed us down."
"But now we are safe," Margaret breathed: her heart was pounding furiously, and the corset prevented her from breathing.
"No," said the gentleman.
"Why?"
He pulled the cane out of the cobblestone and pointed with the knob at the church:
"What do you see?"
Miss Sheridan stared at the temple.
"Oh!"
"Exactly," the stranger squeezed her elbow and dragged her to the bridge. - Where is it?
"In-in-inside..." the girl barely managed to say: the corset seemed to come to life and strangled her. "Don't you see?!"
"If I saw it, I wouldn't ask," the gentleman said through set teeth. "Look back and say where it is."
"Okay," Margaret whispered. Her head was spinning, her legs were wobbly, and she could not manage to breathe. Moreover, this man dragged her along so quickly that the girl was more likely ride in heels behind him in the snow than to walk.
They quickly crossed the bridge, and the stranger ducked into some unknown Margaret alleys. It was a closely built-up residential quarter - the streets twisted like tangled yarn, and the upper floors of the houses converged almost right over their heads.
"Where is it?"
"I don't see it anymore!" Margaret sincerely indignant. "It remained in the temple and breathed."
"Ah, it also breathes..." the savior hissed with incomprehensible embitternment. "Well, congratulations."
"With what?"
"Do you hear it breathing now?"
"Not yet. A... and that, should I?" squeaked Miss Sheridan.
"With the fact that someone removed the door with the lock," said the stranger, and Margaret thought it would be difficult for them to conduct a conversation. Meanwhile, he shoved the girl into a very narrow alley, which ended in a dead end. Miss Sheridan was relieved to lean against the wall. She would now give dearly for a cracked corset. But, unfortunately, Mr. Van Dyne's product withstood all the tests and pressured her ribs so that the mist began to curl again before Margaret's' eyes.
"Hey," the misty gentleman called softly. "Do not think!"
"As if it depends on me," Miss Sheridan hissed. He leaned towards the girl, and she could hardly make out large, very dark eyes on a dimly visible face.
"Okay. Breathe," the stranger stepped back. "If you hear, see or feel something..."
"Of course," Margaret answered forcedly. He dissapeared. Miss Sheridan closed her eyes. Now she was sick. She was always sick of fear. Her legs shook finely, and Margaret clung to the wall with both hands so as not to slide into the snow. She heard that the gentleman was walking quietly nearby, then she took apart a faint rustling scratch, as if he was writing in chalk on the wall.
"There was Mister Kennedy..." sobbed Miss Sheridan. "He just got on the carriage with his friend... They... they crashed, right?"
Since there was no sound in response except a scratch of chalk, Margaret opened her eyes in dismay. The stranger thoroughly filled the seven-pointed star drawn on the wall with some symbols, wielding chalk in a wooden case.
"What are you doing?"
"An extremely idiotic situation," he muttered, squinted at the girl and turned away immediately, so that she could only notice the hook-nosed profile. "Do you feel anything?"
Margaret gathered her courage and listened to the sensations.
"I don't feel it," she answered not very confidently. "Why are you asking me? Don't you... hear?"
"No," the stranger said stiffly, "like a deaf man in a philharmonic society. Actually, that's what I need you for."
"What was it?"
"Evil spirit."
"R-r-real?" The girl uttered indistinctly. The stranger gave her a long look.
"And what do you think?" He finally asked. Margaret exhaled slowly so that the corset would not dig into the chest. She could not describe what she saw in the church, but she knew for sure - it was there. Something without flesh and blood, but frighteningly real.
The gentleman closed the case with the chalk, put it in his pocket, and went closer to Miss Sheridan. He threw off the floors of his coat and frock coat, ran his long thin fingers over a wide belt with cells, each of which had a bottle or a flask with some kind of potion. Margaret stared in amazement at the belt - she had never seen a gentleman wear this.
"What is it?"
He pushed a bottle of purple liquid out of the cell and snapped open the lid with a wonderful clip that opened with the touch of a finger. At the same time, the gentleman did not take his eyes off the street. He poured liquid into the snow and ran a cane through the puddle, stretching the perfect straight line first to one house and then to another. The potion obediently spilled over like the string and lit up. The stranger closed the bottle and put it back in the cell.
"What now?" Asked Margaret timidly.
"Wait."
"How long?"
"I do not know. You tell me."
"If you don't see and hear them," the girl asked after a moment of silence, "why are you doing this?"
The gentleman turned his head to her, remaining in the shade. The light glided only along the sunken cheek.
"I do not do that. But today, no luck. I had to do it. Your Mister Kennedy and his friend," the savior added after a moment's pause, "left the carriage a minute before the start of the performance."
"Do you always answer questions in half an hour?" Margaret muttered offendedly. "On principle?"
There was a mocking harrumph in response, and the girl irritably thought that she would get an answer from him closer to dinner.
"Shouldn't you have some kind of magic thing to watch out for evil spirits if you don't hear it? Or are you always looking for someone's eyes and ears?"
Finally, he turned to her and looked for real, not casual - for a long time, very carefully and intently. Margaret felt like an outlandish animal, which is being studied for usefulness, indignantly flared up and stepped towards him to finally see his face. But the gentleman stood with his back to the sun, and the girl could only see the big eyes shining in the shade. She already wanted to ask who he was, even took air into her chest and coughed convulsively. She had a tickling in her throat from the ashes, it creaked on the teeth, and the burnt aftertaste of burning remained on the tongue. Light faded from dust.
It was here.
It was breathing. Margaret felt its hot breath on her face, and it burned her fingertips. She felt a gaze directed at her from all sides - a look without eyes, without expression, as hot as embers. It was here, everywhere and nowhere, and was slowly approaching. The girl sobbed briefly and swayed.
"Where?" the stranger asked barely audibly, and Margaret recoiled: he suddenly turned so close that she saw his face - thin, with sunken cheeks, protruding cheekbones, a large mouth and a thin hooked nose. "Where is it?"
"Everywhere," Miss Sheridan whispered. The gentleman pushed her behind him and turned to the exit of the alley. Snow covered by gray shroud. Margaret closed her eyes and clung to her savior. Ashes flowed down her face with a rustle, and her hair moved with hot breath. She pressed herself against the stranger with her whole body.
"Here," the girl muttered. "It's here... It's breathing. It is looking at us."
The gentleman backed away, nudging her against the wall with a picture. Margaret caught a faint crackle and opened one eye. The strip in front of them exuded a pale purple radiance, and the same poured from behind. The girl turned around. The star and symbols in it shone.
"It will see us!"
"Quite the opposite," muttered the gentleman. "It won't see us. Sit quietly and do not breathe."
He tried to break free of her grip; Margaret flickered the thought that she was hurting him, but no force would compelled her to unclench her hands. An ash cloud spanned the entire street. The alley was filled with darkness and the stifling smell of burning, to which some else was mixed; Margaret recognized the smell of burnt meat in him and buried herself in the back of the gentleman, squinting tightly.
Was Father Grace in the church when it got there?!
Heavy breathing approached. It seemed to Margaret that it was breathing in her face, neck and ears at the same time, and yet she clearly felt that it was still bihind the line. It froze in front of the purple line, waited and slowly flowed away. The ashes, which painted snow in gray, crawled behind with a rustle. Margaret's legs gave way, and she almost hung on a stranger, praying that it would not turn around. The smoky haze gradually dispersed, giving way to daylight, but Miss Sheridan was able to let the gentleman go, only having felt the usual winter frost instead of heat.
"Gone," he said half-interrogatively. The girl nodded.
"Didn't you feel it? The heat, the smell and the ashes... The ashes were everywhere!"
"No ash. The illusion of your perception."
"What?"
"So you perceive its presence."
"And how do you perceive it?"
"No way. And this has its own charm," the gentleman pulled a flask of grayish powder from a cell on his belt and poured a small handful into his palm. "At least I'm not hallucinating."
"Without... without what?!"
He went to the wall and rubbed the powder over the drawing with several sweeping movements. Margaret watched him with growing surprise. The star and symbols began to evaporate with the hissing; the gentleman ran his hand along the strip in the snow and brushed off his palm. A purple haze rose in the air.
"And now, miss," the stranger suddenly somehow became very close and leaned toward her, almost nose to nose, "look into my eyes."
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