19th November
The fifth corpse was found in the morning. The commissar stood grimly over the body, feeling powerless to nausea. They already known so much, but could not understand who is next. The consultant, pale, disheveled, with blue shadows around his eyes and thick black bristles, was not much different from Brennon and his cops who had been scouring Blackwhit all night in search of a possible victim. Well, in the morning they found...
Longsdale squatted and ran his palms along the layer of ice under which the body was visible. The hound methodically sniffed the corpse. Brennon leaned down.
"Looks like a expensive costume. Surely from a tailor, not from a dress shop. The arm is deformed. It looks like a fracture in the fall."
"Frozen three hours ago," said the consultant. The hound snorted at the body and poked the commissar with its paw. Nathan knelt down to look at the find of Sturdy.
"Take a look!"
Longsdale moved to the commissioner.
"What it is?"
The deceased lay face down, like the other victims. However, a tattered scarlet ribbon protruded from under the belly like a snake, on which something shone. Brennon bowed his head to one side.
"It looks like a medal or some kind of club badge. Who do you think this is?"
"Father of the child," Longsdale said. Nathan got up and walked away from the body. Breath escaped through the teeth with clouds of steam. He managed to cope with a fit of anger just when the consultant carefully touched his shoulder.
"Well?" Brennon said through set teeth.
"Sorry," the consultant said quietly. "I missed him."
Nathan gave him a heavy look. He did not like the look of the consultant.
"Go home. Get enough sleep, eat, take a bath. Anyway, until we cut the body out of ice, you have nothing to do here."
"No, I'm fine, I can..."
"Yeah. Just a real ghoul, no worse than this ... utburd. What the hell have you been doing all night?"
"Tracked down," Longsdale rubbed his face of his hands and muttered indistinctly from under them: "He knows who to hide from."
The hound consolingly poked its face into his knee, and the consultant mechanically patted the back of its neck. Brennon once more examined Longsdale's face revealed to him and motioned for a policeman:
"Connell, load this jentmoon into the carriage and send him to the place of delivery. House number eighty six, Rocksville Street. Tell the butler not to let him out of supervision until he overslept."
"Yes, sir! Please follow me, sir."
Longsdale smiled sadly.
"Call when you need to defrost him."
"Yeah..."
The hound trotted to the carriage, and the consultant followed. Brennon pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and squatted again near the corpse.
***
The Commissar left the department, buried in the reports of his detectives. Gallagher had to work most carefully, but in the end, Brennon received Father Tyne's last day, scheduled almost in minutes, indicating which witnesses testified. Nathan's rapt attention was drawn to the note: "About one o'clock in the afternoon. He talked with the woman. According to Mr. Hayes, this was a young mother - she had a bundle in her hands that looked like a swaddled child. Then Mr. Hayes was called into the sacristy. When he returned, he found neither F.T. nor the woman." Brennon ducked into Mrs. Van Allen's cafe, ordered lunch, and immediately sketched in pencilan instruction - to find and interrogate Mr. Hayes about this person.
"Not a woman, but some ghost, damn her!" Brennon thought gloomily. They could already describe all her movements from childbirth to the drowning of the baby, but they didn't even come a step closer to her personality. By the way ...
"Here," Nathan put the guy who brought the tray, a portrait of a stranger girl, "Saw one?"
"No sir."
"So show everyone else and the hostess too. If anyone saw even out of the corner of his eye - let me inform."
"Yes, sir."
Nathan dug into a soft bun with caraway seeds and pulled Dwyer's report to himself. All as one residents of the quarter where the Murphy family lived, that night felt fear, anxiety or longing, and some heard a ringing. But it never occurred to anyone to go to the call.
"The brewer was the most receptive," thought Nathan, "or the beast was calling him. But why? Here's the question ..."
With all the victims, except Murphy, the utburd managed to meet during their lifetime. Either the brewer was an accidental victim, or they did not know something about him. Either - here Brennon grunted - the wife really got rid of her sickeningly familiar spouse to the frost, and there the utburd turned up successfully.
Mister Tyne's sister confirmed that her brother had an old Bible, which he carefully kept because he brought it from a pilgrimage; however, Regan has not yet been able to find the book.
"Strange, the cross was simply not frozen, and the utburd threw the Bible away," Brennon went to the rabbit stew. "We need to ask Longsdale what the difference is."
Nathan stopped the researches in archives. It was already clear to him that this would not help: no one had filed a statement about the loss of a pregnant blond woman. McCarthy also did not contact the police.
"Is that the fifth victim where will lead ..."
Brennon put the money on the table, collected the documents and put on his coat. He was going to Longsdale to clarify a question or two. And at the same time ask in passing (not that the Commissar would believe in this crap), is it possible to find this woman in any way like those used by fairies from the hills.
"Look in a magic mirror," Brennon thought, scoffing at himself. "Interrogate the animals of the earth, the birds of the sky and creeping reptiles. Ugh!"
A melodious call came upon him at the door:
"Mister Brennon!"
The widow van Allen held a portrait of a stranger, but Nathan was delighted in vain.
"I'm sorry, but I don't remember this girl." If you do not mind, I will keep the drawing and show it to the children.
"Sure. Thank you ma'am."
"Another one?" The widow asked quietly when she came closer. The Commissar nodded.
"You still don't want to leave?"
"No. We have nowhere to go, and besides, so far all the victims were middle-aged and older men. Doesn't that mean women and children aren't interesting to a criminal?"
Brennon raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Wow, you're an expert! How do you know?"
Mrs. Van Allen smiled sadly.
"My husband was a criminal lawyer in Meersand."
"But it's undead. Aren't you scared?"
The widow's smile faded.
"I saw things worse."
Brennon could not find the answer. Thousands of Catholic families from Meersand fled from religious persecution, which the Commissar sincerely considered a relic of the wild Middle Ages or the destiny of barbarians like the Mazandrans. Fifteen years ago, ships from the Meersand States began to arrive in the harbor in dozens. Nathan had no idea what there was happen in this place if people preferred to stay in a country still lying in ruins after the revolution and the war of independence. Many later moved over the ocean, but a lot remained. Some even began to abandon the particle "van."
"What are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Van Allen. "Do you know why he kills precisely these people?"
Brennon thrust his bosom reports.
"I will consult with a specialist. And you, ma'am, do not leave the house at night."
***
Longsdale looked much better. At least, he no longer resembled an unquiet dead man and rather affably offered the Commissar coffee with a bun.
"What do you think about this?" Nathan handed him the report of Gallagher, "Is that her?"
"Quite possibly," the consultant nodded. The hound set its face on his knee and looked inquiringly into his face. Longsdale laid a hand on its head, and the commissar had a strong feeling that the two were exchanging some information. Although, in general, Nathan thought that a human's friend mumped a bun.
"Hey, Sturdy, take" he handed the baking bun to the dog, but it measured Brennon with such a cold look, as if it was a pastor condemning the sins of mankind, including gluttony.
"Will you interrogate Hayes?"
"Yes, as soon as Gallagher catches him in the cathedral. But I have a couple of other questions for you."
Brennon stretched his legs out to the fireplace and pacifically thought that the consultant had settled in well. The house, of course, is old and gloomy, but the fireplace in it is large, and the walls and windows are reliably heat insulated.
"Firstly, the cross and the Bible. Why did the Bible scare the utburd, but the cross didn't?"
"Hmmm ... How competent are you in theology?"
"What?"
The hound snorted. On the face of the butler, who was setting the table with tea, a very malicious expression flickered.
"I'm an atheist," Brennon muttered.
"The bottom line is that the cross is nothing more than jewelry. He does not possess the proper power in itself."
"But he did not freeze."
"Yes. Because he was held in his hand by a worthy man, full of sincere faith. But this is not enough to fend off such undead as a utburd. The Bible, however, kept in itself not only a relic, but also a particle of faith, which many generations have invested in it."
"And you want to say that it works?"
Longsdale drummed his fingers on the armrest.
"I will say this - in the villages where there is a functioning temple and an active priest, there are always fewer undead."
"Active?"
"I mean those who really do business, and not just drink in the sacristy."
Brennan thought for a moment, what, in the opinion of Longsdale, the business should be dealt with the priests. Nathan did not have much reverence for the fat pater, who taught him to read in warehouses and somehow write, although father Greg could drink down the toughest men in the village on a bet and was therefore highly respected.
"That is, the undead also believe in this?"
"Undead and evil spirits obey certain laws, and for these creatures, the non-material is often more important than the material. Because their own flesh is a rather arbitrary thing. But the spirit ..."
"Good, good!" hastily wedged Brennon, who had lost the thread of conversation. "Back to Murphy. All the neighbors heard the ringing and calling, but for some reason only he got out. Do you think this is an accident?"
"Alcoholics are more sensitive to emanations ..."
"To what?"
Longsdale rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Although it may not be an accident ... We'll never know, and why?"
Brennon snorted hard.
"Why? And how do you think we find this lass? We only know about her that she is blonde. Is that enough for you?"
"If I could get a piece of flesh of a utburd..."
"But you didn't succeed," Brennon reluctantly climbed out of his chair, "So we will search by simple enumeration of options. Are you in form?"
"Sorry?"
"We need to unfreeze another corpse."
"Oh yes," the consultant roused oneself, "Sure! Come along."
It seems that Nathan thought sourly, talking with corpses is the main joy in this type of life. Even Kennedy was not so attached to the autopsy table.
***
"Your niece is here, sir," the attendant informed the Commissar in a whisper. Brennon started, hastily apologized to Longsdale and hurried to the office. The hound hesitated, followed the commissar.
"Margaret! What happened? Is everything all right at home?"
The questions burst from the commissioner, as soon as he slammed the door, automatically letting the hound in.
"Oh, Mister Hound!" the niece was delighted and ran both hands into a thick red mane. Nathan took a breath - if that had happened, she would not have been so carefree.
"What are you doing here?"
"Mom asked me to quote, I quote - "What are you thinking?! Independence Day is just around the corner, and you still haven't come to tea to discuss everything!"
"Everything?" Brennon asked in a trembling voice. "I hope that's not the festivities?"
"It is them."
"God, Peggy, I have no time. The investigation is in full swing and..."
"Well, invite your consultant for tea," Margaret wrinkled her nose, "Discuss quietly your killers and thieves, while mom will chop in a hot fight with aunts and other uncles."
The married half of the family treated Brennon condescendingly ("Do not tell Nathan, he is a bachelor and still doesn't understand anything"), but they strictly observed the joint meeting of Christmas and The Day.
"I don't think we can invite mister Longsdale to your mother ..."
"Why? We have excellent garlic croutons. And garlic sauce. Yes, and we find a dozen garlic bulb in the pantry."
"What does garlic have to do with it?"
"With important! I'm sure your consultant is a vampire," Miss Sheridan stated. Endless amazement reflected on the dog's face.
"Who?" stupidly asked Brennon; as often happened in conversations with Margaret, he felt like an ancient old man who was fell behind the steam locomotive of the life thirty years ago.
"Uncle, are you really not reading books? The novel "Count Vampire", everyone read it! I am sure that your consultant is sleeping in a coffin, does not reflect in the mirrors and drinks blood at night!"
"In a coffin?"
"Yes, look at him! The real vampire!"
"But why in the coffin?"
"Firstly, real gentlemen do not behave like that! Secondly, he is terribly pale, and thirdly, he has black hair. Yes, Mister Hound?
"Wufff," Sturdy said in shock. Brennon ran a hand over his forehead.
"Firstly, he sleeps in bed, I saw it myself. Secondly, of course, he is reflected in the mirrors, otherwise how would he shave? Thirdly ... what does garlic have to do with it?!"
"This is poison for vampires," the niece eagerly explained. - So I think, if we give him garlic crouton, we will immediately find out..."
Before Brennon's mind's eye, a vivid picture appeared: he presents to the chief the corpse of Longsdale with traces of painful death and a garlic crouton. Judging by the face of the dog, it was also struck to the depths of its canine soul.
"You are mistaken, miss," soft voice came at the door. Nathan turned around, noticing out of the corner of his eye, how his niece had flared up - blushed from the neck to her hair roots. Longsdale contemplated the girl thoughtfully.
"Harmful to vampires is not the fruit of garlic, and the garlic flowers and their fragrance."
"And if you chew the bulb and spit accurately?" Miss Sheridan asked impetuously. "Will he have a burn? Will it be?"
"No," Longsdale answered. "Although the vampires are very clean, and while he is cleaning his coat, you will have time to run away."
"But they sleep in coffins, right?"
"Seldom. Ghast sleep in coffins."
The girl's eyes widened enthusiastically.
"The ones that eat human?"
"No, miss, ghouls eat human. Ghast consume blood."
"Margaret, you have to go," Brennon firmly intervened, until the consultant told the young miss about the degrees of decomposition of the corpse. The Commissar was sure that the future wife and mother did not need this knowledge.
"But why? I have never read about ghouls and ghast. Tell me, if you pierce them with an aspen stake, cut off their head and fill their mouth with garlic..."
"Margaret!" the commissar choked. "Where did you get these disgusting things?"
"I read..."
"I will tell your mother to keep a close watch on what nonsense you read. And now, be kind, we are working!"
Margaret with obvious disappointment said goodbye. When she flew away like a forest fairy, the hound jabbed Nathan with its paw and looked imploringly at his face.
"Don't even ask, Sturdy," Brennon sighed heavily, "The morals of today's youth shock me."
***
The last, fifth, vicim more resembled a comic sculpture to the point of horror than a corpse. Longsdale had got rid of the ice, but the situation was no better. Kennedy tapped his pince-nez thoughtfully on the deceased's finger.
"Pure ice," the pathologist told the commissioner. "Except that doesn't melt."
Brennon tapped with his knuckle the icy lapel on the coat. It responded with a gentle tinkling sound.
"I'm afraid," Longsdale said, "that when I try to dissect the body it will either crumble or fall apart. And we won't be able to put it back together."
"I'm still inclined to saw off one finger and examine the cut," Kennedy said decisively.
"But can you even say what kind of crap this is?"
"The embrace from a utburd," the consultant answered. "The victims after that look that way. If, of course, he leaves them. Most often, he rubs them crumbs."
"That is, we are still lucky."
"Exactly."
Kennedy fixed his pince-nez on his nose, took a saw and tried on the little finger.
"Hey!" Brennon barked.
"You don't need a cause of death?"
"I can see the cause of death," the Commissar said through set teeth, "perfectly well. What do you think this is?" he ran a finger along the winding scarlet ribbon, which stretched across the very well-fed belly of the victim. A gold medallion hung on the ribbon.
"I would say that this is a distinction of some club for the cream of society," Kennedy bent over the medallion. "Hm. "The Sons of Blackwhit." Maybe Broyd knows this? Before us is a man of about fifty or fifty-five, dressed in an expensive suit and expensive shoes. He is about five feet six inches tall, his face is purple, I would suggest shortness of breath as a result of problems with the heart and blood vessels; and the liver is probably marked by signs of libations."
"Well he hard dude up. Kennedy, do you know how many clubs in the city where your creams can have fun?"
"Quite a bit of. I think we'll find some "Sons of Blackwhit" among them. Do you think he hit in the ice straight from the club?"
"Such significant gentlemen do not walk. Unless a couple of yards from the porch to the carriage."
"But what prevented him from stopping by at some brothel on the way home?"
"This," the commissar poked at the frock coat, "Costume. He is without a hat, cane and outerwear. Take a look at the stains on the shoes. It got wet through even before the darling fell into the arms of a utburd. Pants are also wet to the knees. Although everything is frozen, the spots are clearly visible," Brennon drummed his fingers on the table. "Longsdale, he has a watch chain there. Can't get a watch?"
The consultant shook his head.
"Okay, to hell. Where can you go in such kind at night when your tongue freezes to your teeth? Longsdale, could he jump out of the club at the call of this toad? Like Murphy?"
"Quite."
"He jumped out and ran. Either to it, or from it, but long enough. His snoot is very frightened."
"If he met a utburd, then it is not surprising," the consultant carefully guided his scalpel over the ice crust on his watch, and the corpse crunched menacingly. "I'm afraid we cannot determine the time of death by the clock."
"That is, it is better to leave everything as it is and hope that it does not melt to hell until the arrival of relatives?"
"He will not melt," Longsdale answered. "That I can guarantee for sure."
- Okay. If you're done, I'll send Eddie - let him draw a portrait of the victim. I'll send detectives to the club, but I'll be gone until four. So, if they are managed earlier, then you," Brennon nodded to the consultant, "can read their reports."
"What for?" surprised one.
"They will interrogate the servant. It cannot be that the herd of footmen and waiters did not notice anything. Nothing for your part, I mean."
"Where are you going?"
"In the case," Brennon answered dryly, "I will look for a woman."