hall was no more than a vestibule for shedding coats and footwear. Thinking that Balsdon had fallen and struck his head, Wyatt rushed to his aid—and found himself confronted by a murder scene far grislier than any in Agatha Christ ie.
Blood and carnage.
The room was dominated by a huge fireplace. The vaulted ceiling was spanned by heavy beams dangling farmland relics: sheep shears, a butter stamp, a pig-feeder, a bird-scarer, a flat iron, love spoons, and such. Naked, the old airman was slung by his hands and feet from one of the beams. He resembled a safari beast being carried on a pole. To muffle his screams, the killer had clad the suspended man in the leather flying helmet and oxygen mask of Bomber Command. The oxygen tube hanging from the poor guy's face made him look like a skinny elephant.
A digital recorder at the end of the tube would have captured a permanent transcript of anything he confessed.
The ropes around his hands and feet were looped over the beam so Balsdon could be hoisted and lowered as slowly as the killer holding the makeshift pulleys desired.
Grease and gravity.
What an ugly way to d ie.
The wheelchair, flung aside, lay overturned in the corner.
Beneath Balsdon's buttocks, another device took its place—a sturdy wooden stool with a metal triangle bolted on top. The pyramid-shaped chair, glistening with lubricant, had blood streaking down its legs from the pointed seat. Positioned so it aimed at Balsdon's anus, the thick spike had impaled its way through his abdomen, pushing his intestines out of their cavity as it jutted from his belly. His bowels hung down from the Judas chair like the elephant trunk from the face mask. Above the horror, from the hook of a discarded farm utensil, hung an upside-down Catholic crucifix.
Shocked, Wyatt reached for his cellphone to call the police.
+ + +
Detective Inspector Ramsey, of Yorkshire CID, was a beefy man with a nose pushed off to one side, as if he'd run into a hay-maker in the pub on Saturday night.
"So you don't know the victim?"
"No," Wyatt replied.
"Never met him?"
"No."
"Then why come here to see him?"
"To look at his archive."
"What archive?"
"One that focused on a bomber called the Ace of Clubs.
He told a friend of mine that it was spread out on the table."
"The table's bare."
"It must have been stolen."
"Why?"
"For what's in it. Balsdon linked the bomber to a Nazi traitor who was never unmasked."
"Judas?"
"Yes."
Ramsey nodded. "I read the recent interview. So what does the victim's theory have to do with you?"
"I might write a book."
"About the Ace of Clubs!"
"Yes. To reveal why it was shot down."
"Another conspiracy?"
"Huh?"
"Aren't you the author of Dresden?"
"Yes."
"A muckraker?" asked the detective.
"I wouldn't put it like that."
"There's a lot of money in raking muck, is there, sir?"
"Where's this going?"
"Ran out of conspiracy theories on your side of the pond, did you? Is that why you came over here to milk some of ours for cash? Your reputation is that you stop at nothing to get what you want. Unmasking Judas would be a coup. How far would you go, Mr. Rook, to get your hands on the key to that puzzle?"
"Are you accusing me of murder, Inspector?"
"Detective Inspector."
"Are you?"
"Where were you last night?"
"In London."
"All night? Early and late?"
"Yes. Why?"
"The Judas chair that spiked the victim was stolen from a museum in York hours before Mr. Balsdon was killed."
"Then I have an alibi."
"Unless you have an accomplice."
"Do you think I'd go that far to muckrake, as you call it, Detective Inspector?"
"Why did you write Dresden?"
"I was intrigued by a quote. The more I thought about it, the more I had to know."
"What quote?"
"At the start of the RAF's bombing campaign, Sir Arthur Harris—'Bomber' Harris to the press, and 'Butcher' Harris within Bomber Command—said, 'The Nazis entered this war under the rather childish delusion that they were going to bomb everyone else, and nobody
Blood and carnage.
The room was dominated by a huge fireplace. The vaulted ceiling was spanned by heavy beams dangling farmland relics: sheep shears, a butter stamp, a pig-feeder, a bird-scarer, a flat iron, love spoons, and such. Naked, the old airman was slung by his hands and feet from one of the beams. He resembled a safari beast being carried on a pole. To muffle his screams, the killer had clad the suspended man in the leather flying helmet and oxygen mask of Bomber Command. The oxygen tube hanging from the poor guy's face made him look like a skinny elephant.
A digital recorder at the end of the tube would have captured a permanent transcript of anything he confessed.
The ropes around his hands and feet were looped over the beam so Balsdon could be hoisted and lowered as slowly as the killer holding the makeshift pulleys desired.
Grease and gravity.
What an ugly way to d ie.
The wheelchair, flung aside, lay overturned in the corner.
Beneath Balsdon's buttocks, another device took its place—a sturdy wooden stool with a metal triangle bolted on top. The pyramid-shaped chair, glistening with lubricant, had blood streaking down its legs from the pointed seat. Positioned so it aimed at Balsdon's anus, the thick spike had impaled its way through his abdomen, pushing his intestines out of their cavity as it jutted from his belly. His bowels hung down from the Judas chair like the elephant trunk from the face mask. Above the horror, from the hook of a discarded farm utensil, hung an upside-down Catholic crucifix.
Shocked, Wyatt reached for his cellphone to call the police.
+ + +
Detective Inspector Ramsey, of Yorkshire CID, was a beefy man with a nose pushed off to one side, as if he'd run into a hay-maker in the pub on Saturday night.
"So you don't know the victim?"
"No," Wyatt replied.
"Never met him?"
"No."
"Then why come here to see him?"
"To look at his archive."
"What archive?"
"One that focused on a bomber called the Ace of Clubs.
He told a friend of mine that it was spread out on the table."
"The table's bare."
"It must have been stolen."
"Why?"
"For what's in it. Balsdon linked the bomber to a Nazi traitor who was never unmasked."
"Judas?"
"Yes."
Ramsey nodded. "I read the recent interview. So what does the victim's theory have to do with you?"
"I might write a book."
"About the Ace of Clubs!"
"Yes. To reveal why it was shot down."
"Another conspiracy?"
"Huh?"
"Aren't you the author of Dresden?"
"Yes."
"A muckraker?" asked the detective.
"I wouldn't put it like that."
"There's a lot of money in raking muck, is there, sir?"
"Where's this going?"
"Ran out of conspiracy theories on your side of the pond, did you? Is that why you came over here to milk some of ours for cash? Your reputation is that you stop at nothing to get what you want. Unmasking Judas would be a coup. How far would you go, Mr. Rook, to get your hands on the key to that puzzle?"
"Are you accusing me of murder, Inspector?"
"Detective Inspector."
"Are you?"
"Where were you last night?"
"In London."
"All night? Early and late?"
"Yes. Why?"
"The Judas chair that spiked the victim was stolen from a museum in York hours before Mr. Balsdon was killed."
"Then I have an alibi."
"Unless you have an accomplice."
"Do you think I'd go that far to muckrake, as you call it, Detective Inspector?"
"Why did you write Dresden?"
"I was intrigued by a quote. The more I thought about it, the more I had to know."
"What quote?"
"At the start of the RAF's bombing campaign, Sir Arthur Harris—'Bomber' Harris to the press, and 'Butcher' Harris within Bomber Command—said, 'The Nazis entered this war under the rather childish delusion that they were going to bomb everyone else, and nobody
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