Read Online Death and the Running Patterer by Robin Adair - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Adair
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the victim?”
“I can tell you he was attacked from the front and also, from the fatal wound I deduce that the killer was Bollocky Bill.”
“You know his name?” asked the patterer incredulously.
“My apologies,” replied Owens with a laugh. “I was slipping back into the idiom of my military days. Bollocky Bill was the derisory name given to the soldier who broke the rhythm of any cooperative function, say arms drill, because of his left-handedness. He ballsed it up. Your killer was sinister, literally. But that’s all we know.”
The doctor waved at the covered, complete body nearby. “By the way, this other fellow also died hard. He said he wanted to and he did indeed.”
The younger man frowned. “What’s your meaning?”
“Well, he was poisoned in a most painful and pitiful manner. In point of fact, he ingested enough arsenic to kill a team of horses or a plague of rats.”
The patterer was curious. “Why did you say he wanted a hard death? Did he leave a farewell note?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. A note was found near his body that gave explicit instructions on the method of administering the poison. You certainly, however, don’t expect a man of his class and background to take that particular way out of this vale of tears.”
Dunne felt a sudden tingle of anticipation. “What of his background and class?”
“See for yourself.” The doctor turned down the blanket and they looked down on a tall middle-aged man with a trunk built like a barrel. Dunne tried to avoid staring at the long cut from breastbone to belly, which had been roughly sewn up. He understood vaguely that this was the primary cut in anatomical dissection. Indeed he had even read that early surgeons named the knife to perform this crucial leading incision “Follow me.”
The corpse reeked of the vinegar with which it had been washed. But, said Owens, this was a distinct improvement on the earlier encrustation of excrement and dirt. The skin was white under a pelt of dark hair, except for the hands, which were deeply tanned up to the wrists. The face, too, had a curious tan: It ended about an inch above the eyebrows and just below the chin at the Adam’s apple.
Owens watched the patterer keenly, with the hint of a knowing smile. “Think about the coloring,” he said. “It is unlikely to be what is commonly called a farmer’s tan, or a laborer’s tan—these arms, neck and brow have not seen sunlight for years. But what if I said to you that I have often seen such solar pigmentation—when the face is always shaded by a military cap’s visor, the arms by unchangeable uniform sleeves, the neck by a high collar …”
“You’re saying that he was a soldier?”
“Indeed. And not just any soldier. Observe!”
Owens dramatically and triumphantly pointed to the corpse’s shoulders. On the left was a tattoo, the Roman numerals “LVII,” and on the right the words “Die Hard.”
Dunne shook his head in disbelief. “Die Hard” and “LVII”—the man was yet another, the latest, the third, dead soldier of the 57th Regiment!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Death hath a thousand doors to let out life:
I shall find one.
—Philip Massinger, A Very Woman (1655)
“ Y OU MENTIONED A NOTE,” SAID THE PATTERER TO DR. OWENS. “May I see it?”
The doctor gingerly produced from the side bench an envelope, a spill of paper and a single small sheet bearing a short message. All were still soiled with excrement and were terribly malodorous.
Wishing he had another lozenge, Dunne read, “To work efficaciously, swallow all at once in small water while at stool.”
Even before his brain registered the meaning of the words, he recognized the writing—it was the same script used by the author of the letter to Governor Darling, the letter that had begun the quest. And the patterer realized now what the backward-slanting characters had always indicated: The writer was left-handed.
Distantly, Dunne heard
“I can tell you he was attacked from the front and also, from the fatal wound I deduce that the killer was Bollocky Bill.”
“You know his name?” asked the patterer incredulously.
“My apologies,” replied Owens with a laugh. “I was slipping back into the idiom of my military days. Bollocky Bill was the derisory name given to the soldier who broke the rhythm of any cooperative function, say arms drill, because of his left-handedness. He ballsed it up. Your killer was sinister, literally. But that’s all we know.”
The doctor waved at the covered, complete body nearby. “By the way, this other fellow also died hard. He said he wanted to and he did indeed.”
The younger man frowned. “What’s your meaning?”
“Well, he was poisoned in a most painful and pitiful manner. In point of fact, he ingested enough arsenic to kill a team of horses or a plague of rats.”
The patterer was curious. “Why did you say he wanted a hard death? Did he leave a farewell note?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. A note was found near his body that gave explicit instructions on the method of administering the poison. You certainly, however, don’t expect a man of his class and background to take that particular way out of this vale of tears.”
Dunne felt a sudden tingle of anticipation. “What of his background and class?”
“See for yourself.” The doctor turned down the blanket and they looked down on a tall middle-aged man with a trunk built like a barrel. Dunne tried to avoid staring at the long cut from breastbone to belly, which had been roughly sewn up. He understood vaguely that this was the primary cut in anatomical dissection. Indeed he had even read that early surgeons named the knife to perform this crucial leading incision “Follow me.”
The corpse reeked of the vinegar with which it had been washed. But, said Owens, this was a distinct improvement on the earlier encrustation of excrement and dirt. The skin was white under a pelt of dark hair, except for the hands, which were deeply tanned up to the wrists. The face, too, had a curious tan: It ended about an inch above the eyebrows and just below the chin at the Adam’s apple.
Owens watched the patterer keenly, with the hint of a knowing smile. “Think about the coloring,” he said. “It is unlikely to be what is commonly called a farmer’s tan, or a laborer’s tan—these arms, neck and brow have not seen sunlight for years. But what if I said to you that I have often seen such solar pigmentation—when the face is always shaded by a military cap’s visor, the arms by unchangeable uniform sleeves, the neck by a high collar …”
“You’re saying that he was a soldier?”
“Indeed. And not just any soldier. Observe!”
Owens dramatically and triumphantly pointed to the corpse’s shoulders. On the left was a tattoo, the Roman numerals “LVII,” and on the right the words “Die Hard.”
Dunne shook his head in disbelief. “Die Hard” and “LVII”—the man was yet another, the latest, the third, dead soldier of the 57th Regiment!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Death hath a thousand doors to let out life:
I shall find one.
—Philip Massinger, A Very Woman (1655)
“ Y OU MENTIONED A NOTE,” SAID THE PATTERER TO DR. OWENS. “May I see it?”
The doctor gingerly produced from the side bench an envelope, a spill of paper and a single small sheet bearing a short message. All were still soiled with excrement and were terribly malodorous.
Wishing he had another lozenge, Dunne read, “To work efficaciously, swallow all at once in small water while at stool.”
Even before his brain registered the meaning of the words, he recognized the writing—it was the same script used by the author of the letter to Governor Darling, the letter that had begun the quest. And the patterer realized now what the backward-slanting characters had always indicated: The writer was left-handed.
Distantly, Dunne heard
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