Necrology: Ars Gratia Artis.

[Kylerryth]

Her name was Laura Quigly. She had dark hair and dark eyes, and was tall for her age but had avoided seeming gangly.

She was sixteen years old, and she was about to die.

* * * * *

Laura wanted to scream, but she couldn't, not with this horrible thing forcing her jaws closed; nor could she turn her head, not even a fraction of an inch, and trying brought only agony and increased the bleeding.

Laura did not know what the horrible thing was, but she did know it was not going to kill her. Had that been the case, surely it would have already done so. No, the device -- whatever it was, the One God destroy it and save her from this torturous hell -- was designed to prolong her suffering. And to keep her quiet. The most sound she could manage was a kind of awful whimper deep in her throat, and even then she dared not let it disturb her mouth. Her mouth, where the taste of blood and metal was omnipresent; where, when she had first woke, Laura had tentatively explored her mouth with her tongue and with mounting horror realized that there were two prongs in her mouth -- two prongs, she realized a heartbeat later, that had been driven through the flesh under her chin. Their points pricked the roof of her mouth; a part of the length of each tine grated against her lower jaw bone, against her teeth, creating a terrible, gut-wrenching noise that vibrated through her body into her brain and, involuntarily, caused her to shudder and sweat, which in turn chafed her bound wrists and ankles.

The reason she could not move her head was because of the collar and the other fork. Shortly after her initial realization, Laura had tried to look down at the device -- a mistake she never made again. Not only had the attempt caused intense pain in her jaw, but in her chest as well, in the center of her collarbone, where another fork, set directly against the other and connected via the collar, had been inserted. Laura was bloody from chin to chest, the tiniest movement reopening the wounds; but the forks' prongs had failed to pierce anything vital. She would not die from that.

Laura burned as with fever; her skin was clammy, and her hair hung like a damp curtain about her neck and shoulders, over her face. She was naked and bound, her wrists behind her back and her legs drawn up behind her as well, the tight rope around her ankles connected to the equally tight rope around her wrists. She couldn't move without pain, couldn't cry out without pain; she was helpless, defenseless, stripped of everything -- even her maidenhead, she knew. She felt sore down there; she also felt warm liquid, probably blood, trickling over her thighs. Laura wanted to weep, but she couldn't even do that. Crying would cause her to sniffle or sob, and then the forks in her jaw and chest would prick sharper, grate harder, and the ropes on her wrists and ankles would chafe again and again until they burned her, obliterating her skin and the flesh beneath until each point was a blaze of raw torment, and then she would be a wretched thing of constant misery and suffering, unable to stop herself and the pain she would be causing herself.

So Laura laid there on the hard ground, silent and suffering and bleeding -- but not defeated. Not yet. Hope had not deserted her. It was dark, almost pitch black, the sole source of light a flickering candle somewhere behind her; she had been raped and tortured -- or was being tortured -- but Laura knew something else, too.

Laura knew where she was. She recognized the tools on the walls and their arrangement despite the lack of light.

The thought, however, flashed out of her mind when she felt fingers in her hair, on her scalp. Instinctively Laura thought to open her mouth and beg this person, whoever they were, to help or release her, please, for the love of God; but she stopped herself at the last moment, and instead rolled her eyes as far as they could go to try and see in her peripheral vision the man -- definitely a man, she thought; the fingers were callused and too large to be a woman's -- that was her captor.

"Don't move," he said. It was a command; the soft voice lacked the edge of authority, but it was unmistakably a command, one her captor expected to be followed without question or protest.

"If you move," he said in that soft voice, "you die."

* * * * *

Laura Quigly was found dead the next morning in her father's cellar.

Alwin Quigly, Laura's father, had been out at the Waiting Lady, one of Myrken's seedier taverns, and at the end of the night had been so roaring drunk that his fellows had dragged him to the nearest one's house and thrown him bodily into a full tub -- and when he had climbed out to protest this course of action, they had promptly thrown him back in. So went the night for some time, until Mr. Quigly had sobered enough to understand that he was in fact exhausted to his very bones and had fallen soundly asleep, soaked clothes and all, on the floor next to the tub.

When Alwin woke the next morning, somewhat dry and more than somewhat hungover, he had thanked his friend for the hospitality and made for home, where even in his sorry state he'd noticed an odd smell.

Eventually tracking the source of the smell to the cellar, Alwin had opened the doors and ventured inside, holding a cloth over his nose and mouth ... and had discovered a gruesome scene plucked from Hell itself.

His daughter Laura, already a young woman, had been murdered and mutilated.

Her fingers and toes had been removed, though the only reason this was evident was because Laura's fingers and toes had been discarded around the cellar like trash -- her arms and legs were missing; they had been severed at the shoulders and the hips. Her throat had been slashed; it gaped like a second mouth. Strangely, her hair had been cut almost to the scalp; the rest of her hair was gone, too. Unlike Alyce, Laura had kept her eyes; like Alyce she had been deflowered, though that was a kind way of putting it. There were puncture wounds underneath her chin and in the hollow of her collarbone, but no evidence as to what may have caused them. There was blood everywhere, all over the cellar floor and some on the walls as well.

Alwin Quigly had stared for a full minute in abject horror at the macabre tableau in front of him; and then had he screamed and fallen to his knees weeping.

* * * * *

He was cutting her hair.

The steady snick-snip of the scissors was deafening in the otherwise silent cellar. He would lift a lock, inspect it a moment, and then, snick-snip, it was gone. Laura was bewildered and vaguely horrified, and the absurd thought that she might escape this alive only to be a hairless freak crossed her mind, threatening to make her laugh.

But Laura couldn't laugh. She couldn't talk, couldn't move, couldn't cry; she couldn't do anything but lay there and listen to him work.

Then, like lightning, a thought struck her: she could move. Her fingers and toes weren't restricted, she just couldn't move anything else. On impulse, Laura wiggled one of her big toes.

The scissors stopped snick-snipping.

"You moved," said her captor.

Laura went from burning hot to freezing cold in a heartbeat; the sweat on her body was like ice. She emitted a gurgle from the back of her throat, an attempt at denial she knew to be useless.

When the scissors had stopped, Laura knew she was going to die, and all hope left her.

There was a creak of leather behind her -- her captor moving to stand, she thought. She didn't care. She was going to die. This man -- this man who had raped her and hurt her in ways she could never imagine -- was going to kill her in her father's cellar, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

The scrape of a boot. A faint hum, as someone in thought. And then a clink of metal on metal, the sound echoing in the dim cellar, in her ears, like a knell.

When he returned, he slashed the rope binding her ankles to her wrists; Laura immediately, instinctively struggled, the flame of hope reignited by this unexpected freedom of movement, but to no avail. He did not even laugh at her attempt, which extinguished the flame as quickly as it had appeared; her captor simply grabbed the ropes around her ankles, twisted her around and forced her legs straight -- which prompted a fresh wave of pain in her knees -- and then bent them at the knees so that her feet were flat on the ground. Laura was on her back now, laying on top of her arms, and thought she could sit up if she was careful. If she could sit up, she might be able to see ... see what?

"I said you would die if you moved," he said, fingering her toes. Laura slowly rose, bending only at the waist, drawn by a morbid curiosity. If her captor noticed he gave no outward sign, a fact she was able to discern in the darkness -- he was busy gazing at her feet, her left foot specifically.

No, not her foot.

The chisel positioned just above her big toe.

"I did not, however," said her captor, "say when."

She watched soundlessly as the hammer in his other hand came down.

[Cinnabar]

The warm day does not make the investigation any less unpleasant; quite the reverse, in fact, and the detectives examining the cellar wear strips of cologne-splashed linen tied across their faces to ward off the stink of death in the cramped room.

Calomel's arrival has the two detectives in the cellar pausing to nod in greeting before stepping aside in order that the High Constable might better survey the scene. Short boards with thick blocks of wood at each end serve to keep the Constables from treading through the now-sticky pools and splatters of blood, as much to preserve the evidence at the scene as to save their boots. The body - no, the dead girl - receives a long inspection; a hand gloved in white cotton moves her head carefully to show the ragged punctures in the underside of her jaw, then pries open her mouth to check how deeply the wounds reach; the injury at her throat draws similar attention, though little information seems gained from it; finally her shoulder is investigated as best as can be managed from sight alone, an attempt to discern whether the arm might have been hacked free, splintering the bone to sever the limb, or whether the joint itself had been removed from its socket more neatly.

This done he stands and steps back to view the scene as a whole, taking in the assorted clutter into which the grisly presence of the murdered girl intrudes. That is obviously out of place. What else? What else has been disturbed or placed awry? What else breaks the pattern of a storage space for a man's tools and assorted possessions?

His gaze sweeps also across the blood-drenched floor, seeking tracks, prints, any indication as to the culprit's identity. One might expect it to be impossible for so much blood to have been spilt without the culprit receiving a liberal dose of it himself, at the very least upon his shoes. Considering the butchery involved it seems unlikely in the extreme that the one who wreaked such carnage could not end up gore-smeared to his elbows. Pale grey gaze still flitting about the room, the High Constable speaks to his detectives.

"Interview the neighbours. They may have seen someone arriving or leaving here last night. Her limbs have been taken from here, and one cannot simply hide such a burden under one's coat. Someone must have seen him. Account for the tools - find if he used the ones on hand here, or brought his own. The more information we have, the better our chances of learning something useful.

"There is another message here. Find it. Look for things that seem out of place, but do not disturb anything you do not need to."

[Kylerryth]

One of the detectives split from the scene in order to interview the girl's father; the other remained with Cinnabar, thinking that a fresh set of eyes might reveal something, perhaps a small detail they had overlooked.

* * * * *

"Mr. Quigly," said the detective, offering a hand to the grief-stricken father. "My name is Detective Hallam. I'm truly sorry for your loss, sir. I do have a few questions for you, but these can wait if you don't feel up to it."

Alwin Quigly was seated on a bench behind his home. He hadn't even looked up when the detective approached; but when the man spoke, when he offered to shake hands, Alwin gestured that the man should sit and then said and did nothing for a full minute. Then, quietly:

"My little girl."

Alwin's lined face, previously expressionless, now grew sad, as though he were remembering ... something. He closed his eyes; he buried his face in his hands and sighed, a long, heavy sigh, but Alwin Quigly did not weep again.

From behind his hands Alwin said: "Ask."

Having seated himself in the meantime, Hallam said: "Yes, sir. Please let me know if you want to stop at any time." Removing a small book and a wrapped stick of charcoal from his coat pocket -- the same book he had used at the Pangbourn farm -- Hallam prepared to write down his questions and Alwin's answers, as well as anything else he thought pertinent.

"Mr. Quigly, when was the last time you saw Laura alive?"

At first there was no answer from the other man. Hallam was about to say Alwin's name, to get his attention, when Alwin abruptly rose from the bench and walked a few paces away -- toward the cellar; toward that scene plucked from the bowels of Hell. Hallam thought to follow, but waited instead, gazing at the man's back with his book and charcoal ready.

But Alwin stopped, knowing what was down there. Knowing that looking again would not bring her back. So after a moment he returned to the bench, seating himself again; and then, still not looking at the detective, answered the question.

"Yesterday, just before she went to bed. An hour or so after I went to the Waiting Lady -- you know the place, I'm sure."

"I do," said Hallam. "I know of it, at least. Go on."

"I waited an hour because I wanted to be sure she was sound asleep. She knew I drank, but not how much. Well, tonight I got so drunk I couldn't even make it home. Friends of mine at the tavern dragged me out, dunked me in a tub as many times as it took to sober me up, and then told me to sleep it off there. So I did. Then this morning I came home and..."

Hallam was nodding and writing, but when Alwin paused he stopped to glance at the other man. Alwin was dry-washing his hands; his lips trembled.

"What sort of monster could do this? Is it the Baie? I've heard stories, Detective. Do you know something? Anything?" Alwin Quigly turned to face the detective, and there was a plea in his eyes: find who or what did this to my little girl, and then make them suffer.

"Well, we've reasoned that it is not the Baie. We believe it is a man. An exceedingly cruel and violent man, but a man. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt or kill her? Say, a boy or man she rejected. Someone who would hold a grudge or had a fierce temper."

"No," said Alwin, withdrawing once more into his shell of formless grief. In a whisper he said, "My little rose..."

Hallam looked sharply at the girl's father. "What did you just say?"

Alwin Quigly blinked, then looked back at the detective. "I said, 'my little rose'. That was her nickname."

* * * * *

The puncture wounds just below her chin entered through the bottom of her mouth and framed her tongue on both sides. Some of her teeth were scraped, chipped; the roof of her mouth had a slight puckering at two points, as if poked or irritated repeatedly by something sharp. The slash in her throat revealed little that could not be readily seen, and was obviously the cause of death -- no one could survive such a wound. The stumps where Laura's limbs used to be were cut cleanly; the shoulder and hip bones were intact. Perhaps the killer had pared away the skin and underlying muscle and tissues and then twisted or jerked the arm out of its socket?

"High Constable," called the detective with him in the cellar. "Have a look here."

When Cinnabar joined him, the detective indicated the wall where the tools were hanging from or supported by a variety of pegs and hooks. Apparently Mr. Quigly was a talented fellow: there was an assortment of quality gardening and woodcarving tools, a few unfinished examples of the latter resting on a nearby shelf -- a turtle, a dragon, a horse.

"Judging by the size of the pegs here and this hook here," said the detective, gesturing to each as it was named, "I'd say there used to be a hammer and a chisel on this wall. Not the only set Mr. Quigly owns, but it's plain to see these are missing -- everything else is here, untouched except for minor blood spatter. You'll find this interesting, too."

The detective led the High Constable further down the row of pegs and hooks -- to a set of pliers. Pliers with blackened tips, as if the metal had been exposed to fire.

"Our man left these for us," explained the detective. "A gift, I suppose.

"Oh," added the detective, "over here." They moved to a corner of the cellar where the blood had failed to pool and congeal. "We barely noticed it when we came in because it was in the shadows -- need a candle or a lamp down here even during the day, as you can see -- but when we started searching we found this."

"This," as it turned out, was a small pile of scorched wood and ashes. Here and there were fragments of burned leather, but not enough to piece together even the toe of a boot.

"We didn't know what was burned," said the detective, "not at first. But after searching the house it wasn't too difficult to figure out.

"Our man burned his clothes, High Constable. He used Mr. Quigly's tub to clean up, stole a set of the man's clothes, and then, of all things, scrubbed the floors in the house. It doesn't stop there, though. These bootprints?" The detective pointed to a set, just visible in the blood and packed dirt near the remains of the fire. "They belong to a pair of Mr. Quigly's boots. The rest are like them, too. So either Mr. Quigly is lying and murdered his own daughter, or our man was wearing his boots, too."

Another detective entered the cellar. This one had been inspecting the house for further clues. "Questioned the neighbors of six houses in each direction, High Constable. Nothing. He must have left before dawn, as that's when some of these people wake."

The first detective said: "We've noticed another pattern. It may be nothing, but it's worth noting. Dark hair, dark eyes -- the Pangbourn girl had them, too." He then shook his head. "No explanation for the cut hair, though. No trace of it."

Presently Detective Hallam joined them, a grim expression on his face.

"It's him," said Hallam, sounding disgusted. "We have a link. This girl's nickname was Rose. That's how she escaped the net, High Constable."

[Cinnabar]

The High Constable is silent as he is led through the detective's discoveries, nodding at the man's commentary as if to note that it concurs with his own evaluation. Slender fingers touch upon the spaces left by stolen hammer and chisel; he inspects the half-carved creatures for a moment, fingertips running over the rough-finished surface of the wood before replacing them upon their shelf; he picks up the scorched pliers, paying especialy attention to these - turning them over in his hands, opening and closing them like gnashing jaws; he crouches beside the pile of ash and charred leather, then leans forward to sniff deeply, perhaps seeking for some scent of burned hair amongst the remains of the fire.

Finally he straightens and nods.

"Check Mr. Quigly's alibi with his friends, and the innkeeper at the Waiting Lady. It pays to confirm these things. Also, check whether or not these are his pliers. It may be not so much that they were left here as returned here." A deep breath, creases furrowing his brow as he regards the dismembered remains of Laura Quigly.

"There is no writing, no further taunts left for us? I find it hard to believe that he would have time for a bath and change of clothes, and yet neglect to bait us further." Or perhaps no hints that have yet been discovered. Given their failure to prevent this murder, Calomel was at least hoping that there would be some tip-off which might give them some chance of determining who the next victim might be. Despite this hope, he understands it is most likely a futile thing; he keeps to himself the suspicion that such clues will only prove useful in hindsight, being inadequate to predict or prevent the next murder; such has already been demonstrated this time, as he nods in acknowledgement of Hallam's news. He does his best to keep frustration and disgust from his features, but it is a task almost beyond even his powers of self-control.

Rose. They had been thinking along the right lines. So close. And yet... not close enough for this girl.

Another slow tour of the cellar, grey eyes seemingly unhindered by the poor lighting; surveying those apparently random-strewn digits scattered across the floor; reading the splattered blood as a carnival mystic might read tea-leaves; seeking pattern, some kind of hidden order in the chaos.

"Did he clean up after his bath? Try to get descriptions of the clothes he may have been wearing on his departure. And check with the patrols who were enforcing the curfew in this area. Unfortunately I'm not sure that the pattern we have so far is enough to specifically predict his next target; how many dark-haired dark-eyed young girls are there in Myrkentown?" A scowl at the rhetorical question that gives voice to the near-impossibility of protecting all potential targets.

It goes without saying that this will place the Constabulary in a difficult position; every day that goes by without the murderer being caught, every fresh victim he claims will erode the Constabulary's standing in the eyes of the public. But what else can be done? Leave the citizenry unwarned, unprepared, unable to protect themselves? No. Unacceptable. He glances to the detective who had been in charge of interviewing the neighbours.

"Send word to the Yard: it is to be made known that there is a madman is on the loose; the citizenry are advised to ensure their homes are well-secured against intruders, and to be vigilant for suspicious individuals nosing around their properties. Reassure them that we are doing all we can to track down this creature and put an end to his activities."

That done, all that remains is to do as promised with all possible haste. A wry smile twists his lips at the thought. All that remains. As if it is some trivial chore.

"Have the house searched again; pay extra attention to the girl's room." A hunch, an intuition, and perhaps one that will prove unfounded. But... perhaps it will pay off.

[Kylerryth]

"Consider it done, High Constable." The detective that had interviewed the neighbors saluted and then departed to verify Mr. Quigly's alibi and to speak to the late-night patrolmen in this area, but not before stopping by the Yard to relay the High Constable's instructions. He had a busy day in front of him.

"I'll speak to Quigly again, this time about the tools and his missing clothes, and take him through the house -- to see if he notices anything out of place," said Hallam. He left the cellar muttering darkly, but more to himself than anything or anybody else.

Only the High Constable and the detective that had led him on a tour around the cellar remained.

"Oi," grunted the detective, removing his crap and scratching his scalp. As he put the cap on again he said, "We've got ourselves a real nasty one this time, don't we?"

Before the High Constable would have a chance to reply, a call came from the entrance to the cellar: "High Constable!"

Preceded by the thunder of his footsteps on the stairs leading down into the cellar, a slightly overweight and out of breath detective joined them, silhouetted by the sunlight pouring through the open door.

"High Constable," said the newcomer, breathing hard and sweating profusely. He mopped his brow with a kerchief, and in the process knocked his cap askew; he seemed not to notice. "My apologies. I ran here from the Yard; all the horses are currently in use. I have news from the men who searched with the hounds. They returned to the Yard to say the trail had not been easy to find -- our man is apparently skilled in other areas, too." He paused to gulp air; then, red-faced but regaining his composure, he went on. "They did find something, however, and they followed it for an hour until the trail dead-ended at the Mavoiir. They split and searched for two miles in each direction along the river's edge, but found nothing." Though he had not been a part of the search teams, the detective's face turned redder -- whether from embarrassment due to delivering the bad news or from anger at the fact that it was bad news -- or both -- was something the detective kept to himself.

"Wonderful," said the other detective, sighing. He doffed his cap again, then tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling as if it held an answer for them.

As a matter of fact, it did.

"High Constable," breathed the detective. "Look. Look up." He raised the lamp he was holding despite the High Constable apparently not needing the additional light.

Words had been carved into the wood planks that formed the ceiling, a multitude of them.

My name is Murder.

How unfortunate;
but these things cannot be helped.
Look again, my friend.

The turtle's burden.
The bay Shire horse and the dray.
The black dragon's maw.

Look again, my friend.
A gift inside the house, and,
Perhaps, a clue too.

[Cinnabar]

To the detective's opinion on the case Cinnabar can only offer a grim nod before the news of the hunt is brought by the out-of-breath Constable. This has the High Constable frowning, but nodding again to acknowledge the report.

"Thank you for letting me know. This man grows more elusive all the time, it would seem."

Another moment is spent sweeping his gaze across the cellar, slowly, before the detective's hushed words have him raising his eyes to follow the man's gaze. His expression becomes fixed in an impassive mask as he reads the inscription, and immediately he is stepping across the room to the shelf bearing the unfinished carvings.

Each is picked up in turn, turned over and scrutinised closely, as the message on the ceiling directs. Fingertips trace over the contours of each piece, feeling for irregularities in the wood while he holds it to the lantern's glow, turning it this way and that to see the play of light and shadows across the surfaces, top and underside and even inside the dragon's maw as directed.

Sickening, to have to play along with this madman's games; but what other leads are open?

Then a thought, and he gathers up the carvings before heading for the cellar stairs; he seeks Quigly, seeks answers. Foremost among them: are these carvings the work of his own hands?

[Kylerryth]

Upon reading the message carved into the ceiling, the slightly overweight Constable -- having finally regained a measure of his composure -- said he would investigate the house. He departed; the other constable, still holding the lamp, remained behind in case the High Constable needed anything.

* * * * *

At first the turtle appeared to be just that: an ordinary wooden turtle. It had a sort of elegant simplicity to it; it wasn't meant to be displayed as an example of skill, it was something ... personal, perhaps. Like a gift to a child.

And, like most gifts, it had to be opened.

Cinnabar would find that the turtle's shell opened on one side, its tiny brass hinges cunningly placed on the interior edge of the shell, not at all visible from the outside. This discovery would likely not elicit as much interest from the High Constable as what was tethered to a small brass hook inserted into the body of the turtle: a wood button, just like the one found at the first scene.

Once more the button had a letter carved into it:

X

The horse and cart's secret proved to be far easier to divulge: there was a number painted in red on the underside of the cart.

5

But the dragon, on the other hand ... well, there was nothing remarkable about it. The maw did not open; it did not contain anything. The dragon did not have any compartments like the turtle, nor any letters or numbers painted on it.

What could it mean?

* * * * *

The detective followed Cinnabar up the cellar stairs, extinguishing the lamp and hanging it from a hook near the entrance. Hallam greeted them at the top -- and had Alwin Quigly with him. A considerably less dazed and distraught Mr. Quigly, at that; he seemed to have been seized by a grim determination, evident in the set of his jaw and the light in his eyes.

"Mr. Quigly has vowed to aid us however possible," said Hallam.

"I did and I will," Quigly put in.

Hallam nodded, patting the man on the shoulder. Then, to the High Constable: "Mr. Quigly states that he was unaware of the stolen clothes and tools until I informed him of their being gone." Knowing Cinnabar probably expected that answer, Hallam went on without waiting for a reply. "Mr. Quigly also told me that, because he has a fairly small wardrobe, he can easily identify the clothes that were stolen."

"A bit of good news, then," grunted the other detective.

Hallam shot him a look, but said nothing; instead, looking again at the High Constable, he said: "Finally, Mr. Quigly said that the pliers do not belong to him. In his line of work pliers are largely unnecessary, so buying them would be wasting money and space. Therefore he doesn't own a pair."

"But it's possible I could identify the man who does own them," added Quigly, scratching his thinning hair. "I know every toolmaker in town; they've all made or repaired something for me at one point in time or another, and vice versa."

Hallam nodded at Quigly, then looked to Cinnabar for his thoughts. Abruptly, however, Alwin Quigly said:

"Where did you find my son's carvings?"

He was staring at the carven creatures Cinnabar bore; his eyes were confused and a little alarmed.

[Cinnabar]

The murdered girl's father is met with a nod; a smeared glove is unobtrusively stripped off and stuffed into a coat pocket before he offers his hand in greeting and gratitude. "Mr Quigly; we most certainly appreciate any assistance you can offer in this case." A picture of efficiency and authority, this Constable; concerned but professional, efficient, enough compassion displayed to reassure the man without seeming overly solicitous or insincere. "If there is any point at which you feel a need to pause, or to take a break, you need only say so; we will completely understand."

He nods at the mention of the man's clothes, and seems pleased at Quigly's assertion that he might be able to help trace the provenance of the pliers; any lead is worth pursuing at this point in the proceedings. At the man's question, however, he tilts his head, and glances to the carvings himself.

"These were found on a shelf in the cellar, sir. Beside the tool rack. I believe they were placed there deliberately, as some of them seem to have been tampered with." He turns over the horse and cart to reveal the number painted there, though he watches Quigly's face the whole time. "They belong to your son, you say? Does he live here with you?" A glance to Hallam, as if to check how much he knows of this, though his attention returns to Quigly soon enough.

"The murderer is... particularly callous, and appears to be in the habit of leaving clues for us, though they have proven quite cryptic and nonsensical so far. It is a game he plays, sickening as it is." He holds out the dragon for the man's to take and inspect. "Can you tell me if this has been tampered with in any way, sir? Or where it would normally be placed, if not on the shelf downstairs?"

[Kylerryth]

Alwin Quigly accepted the High Constable's hand and gave it a firm but not knuckle-crushing pump. "I'm glad to help," he said, his dark eyes fierce. Over time, however, Cinnabar's professional demeanor and the collective calm of the other detectives seemed to lessen his ferocity, but not his eagerness to aid them in their duties. "I understand, High Constable. I'll do anything within my power to bring this bastard to justice."

At Cinnabar's revelation, however, Quigly looked puzzled. His bewilderment only increased as he saw the number painted on the bottom of the cart; his eyes drifted from the cart to the High Constable to the other detectives, as if asking a series of unspoken questions: what does it mean? Where did it come from? What does it have to do with my daughter?

On the subject of the carvings: "Yes, they belonged to my son," said Quigly finally, almost tentatively. "No, he doesn't live here ... he doesn't live at all, High Constable. My son died during the Fivefold Blight. One of those big wasps stung him."

Hallam, standing next to Quigly and therefore not immediately visible to the man, blanched visibly at that statement. Apparently Hallam had not known about the son or the son's fate. To his credit, his expression did not change; but he bade them to excuse him a moment, and took his leave of them to aid the other detective inside the Quigly home.

"Clues?" inquired Quigly, obviously disbelieving. "He leaves you clues? Well, if it is a clue, I don't understand it. I guess that's what you're here for, though. To figure it out and put an end to his game, as you put it." Quigly was talking tough, but his eyes betrayed him: they grew moist, and he couldn't look the High Constable in the eye. He did not weep, but he seemed on the verge of losing himself again to his grief. The proffered dragon carving, however, and Cinnabar's subsequent question distracted him; he took the dragon and inspected it, turning it over and over in his hands, his eyes narrowed and focused, searching...

"This dragon," said Quigly, frowning and scratching his scalp in thought, a gesture born out of habit. "This dragon..."

A moment's silence; and then, suddenly, Alwin Quigly's eyes widened with recognition.

"This dragon," he said. "It hasn't been tampered with, no. It was carved by my son for another boy. The son of a tavern owner -- a disreputable place called the Floating Dragon, here in Myrkentown. I ... I used to go there, before the Lady. Played cards a lot, drank watered spirits until I couldn't see straight; sometimes I came home richer, sometimes poorer."

"The boy's name?" inquired the detective accompanying Cinnabar.

"Alexander Crawford," answered Quigly, fingering the dragon's maw. "He's an older boy -- a man, really; he must be twenty or so now. I see him occasionally in the market, probably shopping for his mum and da. Tall, built well, long brown hair. Talks real quiet. The girls are all over him, usually, but he doesn't pay them much attention. Which, of all things, seems to make them crazier for him."

The detective snorted, stifling a laugh; he glanced at Cinnabar and, murmuring an apology, composed himself once more. Quigly blinked at him, but didn't seem to share the man's humor. Instead he looked at the High Constable and went on.

"Mostly he works in the tavern with his da, helping however he may be needed. Sometimes he'll 'prentice himself out, to learn something new -- to help his family, I suppose. He would've helped Oliver -- my son -- learn some craft and trade, too. They were good friends."

Presently Hallam and the overweight detective joined them, the latter sweating as much as ever ere but apparently in better condition now than when he had arrived. The summer sun and heat were not kind to him, though: it was easy to see that the detective would have a ghastly case of sunburn if he remained out much longer, and who knew how long it would be before the man fell over from dehydration.

"High Constable," said Hallam. "Detective Marsh has found something of interest." He gestured to what Marsh, the overweight detective, held in his pudgy hands.

It was a brassbound box, much like the one found at the first scene. The same design, the same latch -- everything was identical. Should Cinnabar look to Quigly for an explanation, he would find the man as bewildered as ever; he obviously didn't know what the box implied, nor did he recognize it.

But ... what was inside?

[Cinnabar]

The High Constable offers a sympathetic nod at the tale of his son's death, but remains quiet as Mr Quigly explains the carved dragon's history. At the description of Alexander Crawford he tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he considers the information given.

"Do you know what sort of trades he apprenticed in?" Ideas are forming, pieces seeming to match up, but it remains to be seen whether they fit well or not. Hallam and Marsh's return provides something of a distraction, and his brow furrows as he notes that ever-so-familiar box in the portly detective's hands. He holds out his own hand for the box, murmuring a quiet thanks and tilting it slightly in case anything within should shift about. Hm.

"Clues, Mr Quigly. Clues beyond those we would find anyway, like footprints or a scent trail or such. More deliberate, like a trail of riddles and puzzles for us to scratch our heads over. He has struck before, I fear, and left a similar item hidden near the scene. Where did you find this? Was there anything nearby, anything written?" These last questions directed at Detective Marsh. He moves across to a low stretch of garden wall, setting the box down and carefully unfastening the latch. A moment of hesitation, a pause before he opens the lid away from himself, shielding the casket's contents from Quigly for the time being lest some fresh horror be contained within.

"The last box contained a fresh-cut rose, which might give some idea as to how the creature's mind works." A hint, but not enough to save Laura Quigly. Perhaps this box will be different. Perhaps. One can always hope, after all.

[Kylerryth]

Alwin Quigly -- the last living member of his family; a husband who had outlived his wife, a father that had outlived both son and daughter -- stared a moment longer at the box in Detective Marsh's hands, then regarded the High Constable with his sad and confused eyes.

"Woodwork was the first," answered Quigly, his voice distant with recollection. "Barras Audley was his master's name. Briefly worked for some metalsmith, too, and a brewer, though the latter's instruction did little to improve the Dragon's drink," he added, sounding disgusted yet wistful all at once. "Can't remember their names. Sorry. When the heat wave came during the Fivefold Blight, along with all those bugs, Alexander took to working in the fields despite the dangers and learned him something about being a farmer, too. He wanted to learn to grow food for his family, so they wouldn't starve. Then the drought hit, and it about killed everybody -- you wouldn't believe how scarce food became, how many wells dried up..."

The detective accompanying Cinnabar had grown still and silent, listening intently to Quigly's account of Alexander Crawford's history ... and a part of Myrken Wood's history. A terrible part; a part he would rather forget.

Then Cinnabar spoke while examining the exterior of the box, even tilting it and listening for anything inside -- an action rewarded by the sound of something sliding and then rattling; and he explained to Quigly the clues the murderer left behind and the details of his so-called game. A game of death, Quigly decided; a game that, hopefully, would end in the murderer's death, and not that of another young girl.

Quigly fell quiet, content to listen for the time being. Marsh, on the other hand, grunted and mopped his brow again, this time almost knocking his cap off his head. Hallam glanced at the gravity-defying cap, but said nothing; he was visibly amused. He seemed to have regained his composure and humor.

"It was in the den, on the mantle," Marsh replied after Cinnabar took the box. "At first I didn't see it -- our man had placed it behind a few other pieces -- but when Hallam and I made to come back out, I caught a gleam on its corner that I didn't remember seeing at any time before. Hallam recognized the box and told me to bring it to you for inspection. No, no writing that we saw, and we had a good second look around the area."

That concluded, and with Cinnabar having taken possession of the box, Marsh excused himself so that he could return to the Yard, where he was likely needed more than he was here. He walked around the side of the Quigly house and, after rounding the low stone wall separating this house from the next, took off at an easy trot.

Cinnabar's revelation of the previous box's contents caused Quigly's lips to compress into a thin, pale line, but elicited no further reaction; the man had grown grim in silence, grim and somewhat older than he already was, his face drawn but determined. Quigly made no move to see what was in this box, but the detective that had remained with Cinnabar all the while turned to catch a glimpse...

... of a triangular piece of metal.

At each point the triangle was sharp, but on one of its sides -- the bottom, it seemed; the piece thickened at that end -- it was bent outward, as if it had been forcibly snapped off of a larger piece. The sides leading to the topmost point were thin, like the edges of a knife; the bottom was relatively flat.

There was a note, too. When the High Constable unfolded it, it read:

Here is your clue, friend.
Simple, yes, but I like it.
Now come and get me.

"Oh," said Quigly suddenly, blinking. "I forgot to finish. After everything settled from the Blight, Alexander went back to work at the Dragon. But he wasn't happy there, said they could do things to make it better. When I saw him last, he was talking about becoming a cook at this tavern outside of town.

"But I can't remember its name..."

[Cinnabar]

The indications mount up, the damning clues painting an increasingly clear trail for the Constable to follow.

Woodwork. Metalsmithing. That would fit.

And then the box's contents - he picks up the metal shard carefully, tilting it this way and that between slender fingers, turning it to the light to inspect it, them carefully examining the box's interior as Quigly provides the final piece of the puzzle. A cook, he says. A tavern outside of town, he says. And the Constable falls still for a moment, eyes losing focus for a brief time. Then he looks to the murdered girl's father, holding up the blade fragment for the man to see more clearly.

"The Broken Dagger." Then to Hallam, his tone quiet, but weighted with urgency. "Catch up with Marsh and have him send a squad to Crawford's home, in case he's not at work today; another couple of men are to visit the Floating Dragon to ask after him there. You're coming with me. We'll take a squad of men to the Broken Dagger - if Crawford's there, we'll bring him into custody - alive. I am not prepared to rely solely on the clues the murderer leaves for us; if Crawford is innocent and being deliberately implicated, we still have other leads to follow."

The clues left for him point towards Alexander Crawford, but the High Constable is not so naive as to trust them unquestioningly. It may be that the young man is innocent, in which case there will still be a murderer on the loose. It may alternatively be that he is as guilty as these clues would make out, in which case this will be an end to it.

A thought strikes him then, and he pales despite his professional demeanour. Certain aspects of this most recent murder, certain things unaccounted-for which lead to an idea so wrong as to be almost unthinkable; and yet, how many unthinkable deeds has this murderer already committed?

"And pray no one has eaten anything he's cooked today."