Kronos, p.10
Kronos, page 10
Ted Somerton looked up at Marcus as if confused about who he was. Then a fragment of understanding crept into his expression and he nodded and stepped back. He and the young man stared at one another as Marcus bent to look at the body.
‘Exactly the same as before,’ he said. ‘Not that we expected anything else.’
‘Same as the Sorrell girl?’ Somerton asked, not taking his stare off Gluckhaven. ‘What is it, then? Plague?’
‘We don’t know what it is,’ said Kronos before Marcus could reply – not that I believe for one moment that he would have started talking about vampires in front of these two.
‘And who would you be?’ Somerton asked. ‘There’s a good deal of talk about you, with your funny accent.’ He looked at me and sneered, his face twisted with all the disgust of a man who had just caught a dog emptying its bowels in his house. ‘And your weird friend,’ he continued. He puffed out his chest, obviously determined to claw back some control over this situation. ‘You has to wonder,’ he continued, ‘about the appearance of strangers at the same time as something like this happening, don’t you?’
‘Not really,’ Kronos replied. ‘I am an old friend of Dr Marcus and he contacted me for my advice on the matter.’
‘Advice, is it?’ said Somerton. ‘And what advice have you to give?’
Kronos stared at him in silence for a moment and then replied. ‘I advise you to take your daughter away and have her remains buried with the respect she deserves. Then let me get on with solving this mystery for you before someone else’s daughter ends up dead.’
Somerton looked about to argue but Freddie Gluckhaven interrupted.
‘Please don’t,’ he said. ‘Not with her lying there – she’s worth more than some stupid quarrel. Take her home. Love her. Let these people do whatever it is they can do.’
Somerton opened his mouth for a moment but then closed it. He bent down to pick up his daughter’s body and walked off with it in his arms without saying another word.
Once he had gone, Gluckhaven walked over to us. He looked at Kronos. ‘You mean what you say?’ he asked. ‘You can help find whatever did this?’
Kronos nodded.
Gluckhaven thought for a moment. ‘Then I’ll help you in any way I can. I loved Sally so very much …’
Marcus put a hand on the young man’s arm. ‘Tell us what happened.’
Gluckhaven shrugged. ‘I saw nothing. She was walking home, I was watching her, she dropped out of sight in one of the drainage gullies and when she reappeared she was like this. By the time I got to her she was dead.’
Kronos looked over to the gully. ‘It happened down there?’ he asked.
Gluckhaven nodded. ‘I suppose it must have done,’ he said. ‘There was nothing wrong with her before.’
Kronos walked over and jumped down into the deep trench. He looked over to me and nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let us hunt.’
I do wish, when Kronos is in his hunter/tracker moods, that he would remember I find it hard to match his pace. He ran as fast as he could, his boots kicking up a flurry of leaves as he followed the signs of someone having travelled this route. I did my best to keep up, keeping one hand on my hat as I ran in his wake.
I’m not a bad tracker myself (all it takes is an observant eye, after all, and I have two of those) but the speed with which Kronos identifies a trail and then sticks to it is more like that of a dog than a human. He barely pauses, his eyes tracking the route almost too quickly for his feet to keep up.
After a few minutes we climbed out of the gully and dashed between the trees.
Kronos stopped and I came to a juddering halt behind him, only too relieved to be able to draw breath.
‘The toads,’ he said.
I looked around and realised that, yes, we were about to cross the line we had drawn through the boundary of the woodland. Close by I spotted a small twist of ribbon tied to the branch of an evergreen bush. That was how I had marked the location of the boxes. Kronos followed my gaze, strolled over, withdrew his sword and stabbed into the soil with it. He cut a wide circle, the freshly turned earth parting easily enough before he dug out the small wooden box. He threw it to me and I pulled back the lid. A fat toad jumped to freedom and I smiled.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘guess what walked this way recently.’
‘Did you doubt it?’ Kronos asked.
‘Not really,’ I had to admit, ‘but it’s good to know for sure.’
Kronos walked a few more paces and then sunk to the ground once more. ‘Coach tracks,’ he said, looking ahead through the trees. ‘We need to fetch the horses.’
Twenty-Six
Morris Blake Hires a Killer
DEAREST NELL,
Soon our time will come! I have, today, completed a favour for the Durward household and have no doubt that its appreciation will be both considerable and swift.
I confess that I was a little concerned about the details of my mission to begin with. It seemed a dark business and not one I should readily involve myself in. Still, having thought about it – and yes, I’ll admit it, having considered how it may improve my standing and therefore bring us closer together – I decided there was little sin in it. You remember I told you about the strangers recently arrived? The foreigner who dresses like a soldier, and his malformed assistant? Well, it cannot be said that their presence has been welcomed. They go about strange business in the forest and the foreigner has even threatened some of the local folk. Yesterday the local priest, Father Volk, was found murdered in his church. Murdered in such a terrible manner that I cannot begin to describe it to you. There was one clue as to who may have done such a thing: a button of the sort that might be found on a military uniform. It is a suggestive find, I’m sure you’ll agree.
I have become convinced, along with others here, that these strangers need to be dealt with. They are a menace and they need to be removed from our company.
For some time a gentleman of distinction has been staying close by, a lauded veteran of the recent conflicts, now retired from combat in order to pursue a quieter existence. Mackendrick Kerro is his name, and I was asked if I might hire his services in order to encourage the strangers to depart the area. Of course, I was pleased to be able to make the gentleman’s acquaintance and so I set out to meet him.
He is staying at our inn, the White Hart. Not that I want to give the impression he couldn’t have had a finer roof over his head – I am sure he could – but I believe the simple establishment afforded him the privacy he desired.
Did you ever think I would be moving in such elevated circles, dearest?
I was made most welcome by Mr Kerro and a number of his select associates who were also travelling with him. I explained our problem to him and he was only too happy to help.
‘Young man,’ he said, ‘I will not stand for ill behaviour from anyone, most certainly not a man besmirching the army’s name by masquerading as one of its number.’
He told me a number of stories concerning his exploits during the campaign. You would have been proud to have seen me in such company!
I left him with the assurance that his assistance was deeply appreciated and returned to Durward Hall where I was able to pass on the news of a job well done.
Just you wait and see: everything’s going to work out very well for us, I have no doubt!
Yours,
Morris
Twenty-Seven
Kerro Fights the Ale Regiment
I SWEAR, SHOULD I ever catch sight of that doxy again I’ll cut her from her flapping mouth to the canker-encrusted wound she infected me with. A man should not wake up with balls burning like coals. I could mull wine with them, they’re so hot. Filthy bitch, and not worth the couple of coins I graced her with. You’d think a fellow who’s fought in more wars than most men have had birthdays would be able to get a bit of quality cunt, wouldn’t you? He certainly shouldn’t have to pay for it only to end up rotting his bloody prick off.
Kerro, my lad, it’s a fucking disgrace.
It would help if I could keep my thirst for booze down, of course. I woke up this morning with what felt like an entire fucking regiment marching through my skull. An ale regiment! Barley soldiers galloping on hop horses. My head’s pounding so much that I can’t even get to my feet for a few minutes. I just have to lie there, pipe in one hand, balls in the other, waiting for the pounding to quieten down enough for me to meet my fellow guests here at the White Hart without feeling the need to slice their heads off with my sword.
Of course, you might say that if I got up before lunchtime I’d have a better chance of finding the place quiet. You might say that. But then I’d have to punch your fucking teeth in for being so sanctimonious.
Eventually I manage to get upright, pull on my britches over that rank and treacherous organ and head downstairs. Grafton and Underhill are already in place, tankards in hand. This is good: it saves me having to put my hand in my pocket, I wouldn’t want to have to exert myself that much at this tender hour of the afternoon.
‘Well done, gents,’ I say, helping myself to a their ale. ‘You’ve organised breakfast.’
I can tell Grafton’s not pleased – he sneers a little before offering his polite laugh. Difficult, that. If he didn’t care about my helping myself to his drink I’d think he had no balls at all, but if he ever looks like caring too much I’ll cut off the ones he does own. The chain of command is a fine line, that’s for sure. A real fucking art.
The place is pretty quiet. You’d think our presence would guarantee Hollis a bit of decent trade – people wanting to rub shoulders with the war heroes, so to speak. Maybe they have Royalist leanings hereabouts, but it actually seems to keep them away.
A fat man’s filling up one of the centre tables. I don’t recognise him. He must be a traveller, though I pity the poor horse that has to carry his weighty arse.
There’s also a dandified boy in a cape, some per fumed servant with ideas above his station. He stares at me as I come down the stairs. Never seen a real man in his life I suspect, probably all overcome with excitement.
I drain Grafton’s beer, just to teach him a lesson, and stare at the fat man for a while. He’s eating bread and cheese, filling that fat moon face of his. It makes me hungry, to my considerable surprise.
‘When did we last eat anything?’ I wonder aloud.
‘We had that pie yesterday,’ says Underhill. ‘Tasted of dog.’
That strikes me as funny and I can’t help but laugh. ‘Trust you to know what dog tastes like, you fucking animal,’ I tell him.
I sit down at the fat man’s table.
‘Yes?’ he asks, mouth full of bread.
‘Kerro,’ shouts Hollis, ‘please …’
Please … Please don’t cause trouble, please don’t get me in trouble, please don’t kill anyone … Would that I should never have to tolerate the word ‘please’. The ale army steps up its clamour a notch in my head and for a moment I have to close my eyes against the noise. I wish they’d quieten down for a bit.
‘Shut up,’ I shout. ‘You’re damned lucky to have us as your guests. You should be bending over backwards to keep us happy.’
‘Or bending over forwards in Underhill’s case,’ says Grafton, laughing.
‘Piss off,’ Underhill says. But he’s used to the joke and doesn’t really rise to it. Underhill’s good like that, he has an even temper. Not me. I’m always going off on a rage. Blame the ale army – it’s their drums I march to.
‘I think you’ve had enough of that,’ I tell the fat man. ‘If you eat any more you’re likely to burst and then we’ll be wading through your guts for the rest of the day.’
‘Please, Kerro,’ says Hollis, again. ‘If you want food I’ll make you food – it’s no problem.’
‘I don’t want you to make me food,’ I say. ‘I have food here.’ I reach over and help myself to a piece of cheese. It’s not bad: strong and tasty.
‘Look,’ says the fat man, ‘I don’t know who you are …’ and that’s certainly true or we wouldn’t even be having this conversation ‘… but this is my lunch and I’ll thank you to leave me to finish it in peace.’
I hear Grafton and Underhill shift behind me. Good lads, they know their cue when they hear it.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry. You want to finish your lunch, do you?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘In peace.’
‘Right,’ I say, giving him my biggest and best smile, just so he knows how incredibly fucking happy I am. ‘Let me help.’
The thing about big men is that they think they’re invulnerable. They think weight equals strength. It doesn’t. I explain this to Fatty the best way I know how, by hooking my foot around the leg of his chair and pulling while at the same time I shove at his chest. He topples back, the chair breaking underneath him as his fat arse hits the floor.
I grab his plate and sit down on his chest. He has better breasts than that doxy. I wonder briefly about letting him stay on the floor as somewhere comfy for me to relax.
‘Here you go,’ I say, picking up a piece of cheese and shoving it at his mouth.
He’s about to shout and so I drop it in there. I have enough noise in my head and I don’t need him adding to it.
Dirty pig spits it out.
‘Manners,’ I tell him.
I shove a piece of bread at him to stop him saying anything but he snaps his mouth shut like a naughty baby refusing to be fed. I eat the bread myself while poking Fatty in his eye.
‘You will eat your lunch,’ I say. ‘Like a good boy.’
He tries to throw me off and this makes my head pound and the ale army march with even greater vigour.
I draw my sword and hold its tip to his throat.
‘You will eat your food,’ I tell him, ‘or I’ll cut you a new mouth, understand me?’
He stops struggling, that lovely look of perfect terror settling on him as he realises that not only am I capable of killing him just for sport, I’d actually really like to. I’m looking, in fact, for the slightest excuse to do so. He opens his mouth.
‘That’s better,’ I tell him, rubbing the piece of cheese over his face and then dropping it between his lips. ‘Hungry boys need their cheese.’ This sounds quite absurd to me and I feel foolish sitting on this rotund bucket of shit. My appetite for the game has disappeared as quickly as has his for his meal.
I get up, keeping the sword pointed at his throat.
‘Goodbye,’ I whisper, the ale army pounding its hardest yet as I stand up. How I wish I could find an amusement that would scare them away.
Grafton and Underhill laugh as the fat man rolls onto his front and scurries from the room on his hands and knees. I haven’t got a single laugh left in me. I am brittle. I am sick. I have all the ranks of the ale army marching over me and they’re crushing me underfoot.
‘Kerro?’ says a voice, that of someone who clearly doesn’t understand that there’s a time and place to talk to me and this is neither.
‘Piss off,’ I say, ‘or I’ll show you what I’d have done to him had he not eaten up his meal.’
There is the sound of a coin purse landing on the bar. I decide that just might be the only noise in the world that is interesting enough to quell the rage that’s building up inside me.
I open one eye. The purse looks quite full: it certainly sounded nice and heavy.
‘Yours if you do a job for me.’
I open the other eye and look at the perfumed servant. He is perhaps a little older than I first thought. Still a little fairy, though.
I reach out, pick up the purse and stick it in my pocket. Best to keep these things safe – you never know in stinking fleapits like the White Hart.
‘You don’t even know what the job is yet,’ he says.
‘I am a kind and helpful man,’ I reply, ‘and people only really employ me to do one thing these days.’
For a moment, just one blessed moment, the ale army ceases marching.
I smile at the dandy, overjoyed at the window of clarity he has brought into my day. ‘So who do you want me to kill?’
Twenty-Eight
Marcus Visits the Durwards
KRONOS AND GROST reappear just as I’m sending Freddie Gluckhaven home. There’s nothing the poor lad can do right now and it’s obvious that he needs to rest: the shock of what has happened is weighing as heavy on him as anyone would imagine.
‘We are going to the village,’ says Kronos, mounting his horse, ‘on the trail of some coach tracks.’
They gallop back the way they came, leaving me stood alone at the site of our latest death.
I used to love these woods but I doubt I’ll ever feel happy in them again. I am a man who has sworn to uphold life, though all I seem to do of late is attend on death. Which makes me think of Hagen Durward and the fact that the Durwards’ home lies also in the direction where Kronos and Grost are riding.
A wind rustles through the trees and I let my mind wander. Could there be some connection between these deaths and the exaggerated ageing of Lady Durward? The good lady may be a great deal more alive than Petra, Ann or Sally but the coincidence seems too strong to ignore. I won’t send Kronos there, though – not yet, at least: I owe the family a little more tact than that. I should visit myself and see if I can sense something amiss.
While I ride through the forest I think about Hagen Durward and wonder how his bereaved family can look back on him with such a different perspective. The statue in the graveyard labels him a fine swordsman. That he was. It is revealing, however, to note that, unlike on nearly every other memorial you see in that hallowed plot, there is no mention of what he was like as a human being. It is in incised granite or carved wood that loved ones seek to extol the virtues of the deceased. They sing the praises of the lost one as a father, husband or (often saddest of all) child. The Durwards chose to acknowledge the man’s skill at killing.
Hagen Durward was not a good man.
