Hawk did his best to ignore Jamie and Alistair breathing down his neck, and looked the dead man over carefully, starting at what was left of the head and working his way slowly down the body. There were a number of cuts and scrapes, presumably from being wedged up the chimney, but no sign of any death wound. He turned his attention back to the burned face, and winced despite himself. The eyes and nose were gone, and the teeth grinned horribly through a mask of charred flesh and bone. There was no hair left, and the ears were nothing more than blackened nubs. Hawk breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying to avoid the smell. He'd seen many dead men in his time, often in worse condition than this, but there was something disturbingly cold and calculating in the manner of this man's death. He touched the man's shoulder gently with his fingertips. The flesh was cold to the touch, already showing the purplish bruises caused by blood sinking to the lowest part of the body. The dead man had been in the chimney for some time. Maybe overnight. Hawk tried the neck, but it didn't seem to be broken. He worked the dead man's arm gently, and it bent easily at the elbow, indicating rigor mortis either hadn't set in yet or had been and gone. Hawk frowned. That was probably a clue as to how long the man had been dead, but he didn't understand such things. He'd never needed to. That was what forensic sorcerers were for. He looked round sharply as Jamie MacNeil crouched down beside him. Alistair leaned in closer, one hand resting supportively on Jamie's shoulder.
"How did he die, do you think?" said Jamie steadily.
"Hard to tell," said Hawk. "There's no actual death wound that I can see, just the damage to the face."
"Nasty way to go," said Alistair. "I once knew a tribe of savages who killed their prisoners this way; hung them over an open fire till their brains boiled. Nasty."
"I don't think that's what happened here," said Hawk slowly. "Look at the back of the head." He gingerly lifted the burned head off the floor so they could see. "The face has been totally destroyed, but the back of the head is barely touched. I think someone pushed this poor bastard's face into the fire and held it there till he died."
"Gods!" Jamie looked suddenly as though he might vomit, and turned his head away, eyes squeezed shut.
"There's no sign of any struggle here, as far as I can see," said Fisher, her voice coming hollowly from inside the chimney. She ducked her head back out, and beat soot from her hair and shoulders. "Looks to me like he was already dead when the killer stuffed him up the chimney."
She started towards the group round the body, but Alistair moved quickly to block her way. "That's quite close enough, my dear. Please return to the others. This is no sight for a young lady such as yourself."
Fisher was about to ask sarcastically whether he was referring to the dead man's injuries or his nakedness, when she caught Hawk glaring at her. At which point she remembered she was supposed to be a sheltered young flower of the Quality, not a hardened city Guard, and she went reluctantly back to join the others. She put a comforting arm round Holly's snaking shoulders and listened carefully to what was being said about the dead man.
"Any idea who this is? Or rather, was?" said Hawk to Jamie.
The MacNeil looked back at the body. His face was very pale, but his gaze was steady and his mouth was firm. "Whoever he is, he shouldn't be here. The last of the servants left two days ago, and the only guests I know of are all in this room."
"Maybe one of the servants came back," said Alistair.
"Not without Greaves knowing, and he would have told me." Jamie shook his head slowly. "None of this makes any sense. No one could have got in past the Tower's wards without setting off all kinds of alarms. It's impossible. And who would want to kill a man here, and like… that? It's insane!"
Alistair gripped Jamie's shoulder firmly. "Easy, lad. Don't go to pieces on us now. You're the MacNeil, and the others will be looking to you for guidance. We have a murderer loose in the Tower somewhere, and we have to find him. Before he strikes again."
"He's right," said Hawk. "This is a very nasty business, Jamie. You'd better call in the Guard."
"No!" said Alistair sharply. "This is a Family matter. We don't bring outsiders into Family business."
Hawk got to his feet and stared at Alistair. "What century are you living in? You can't keep the Guard out of something like this! This is murder we're talking about, not who put some chambermaid up the stick. Our best bet is to get the hell out of here, send for the Guard, and then block off all the exits till they get here. Let them find the killer; they're experts."
"I'm afraid it's not that simple," said Jamie, rising to his feet. "I've already raised the final wards. I did it just now, so that we could get on with the reading of the will. I never thought… The wards can't be lowered for another twenty-four hours. That's the way they're designed. I'm sorry; there's nothing I can do. None of us can leave the Tower."
David Brook stepped forward, staring disbelievingly at Jamie. "Are you saying that we're all trapped in here with a killer? That whatever happens, there's no way out?"
"Yes," said Jamie. "I'm afraid so." He stopped abruptly and looked at Hawk, who was frowning down at the body. "What is it, Richard?"
"I was just wondering why the killer took the time to strip the body naked. Presumably the killer didn't want us to be able to identify the victim. Which suggests that at least one of us would have recognized him. That explains the burned face, as well."
There was a short pause, broken by Fisher. "Something else to think about. That body had been wedged quite a way up the chimney, going by the traces I found. Whoever the killer is, he must be pretty strong. It can't have been easy, stuffing a limp dead body feet first up a chimney."
Holly moaned quietly, and several of the others looked quite disturbed by Fisher's remark.
"The man must have been mad," said David. "Madmen are supposed to be incredibly strong, aren't they?"
Alistair cleared his throat meaningfully. "Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us, Isobel, but I really feel you and the other ladies should withdraw. This is not a subject suitable for your tender ears."
"No!" said Hawk quickly. "I don't want anyone going off on their own. Unless they like the idea of being an easy target. Until we know what the hell's going on here, we'd do better to stick together. There's safety in numbers."
Jamie looked at him strangely. "You sound almost as though you've had experience with this sort of thing before, Richard."
Being called Richard brought Hawk up short, as he remembered who he was supposed to be. He shrugged, thinking quickly. "There was a murder at one of the inns Isobel and I stayed at on our way here. I did a lot of thinking about it afterwards, and all the sensible things I should have done. But you're the MacNeil, Jamie, and this is your home. You're in charge. I wasn't trying to usurp your authority."
"Don't be daft," said Jamie. "This is all new to me. If you've got any ideas on what we ought to be doing, speak out."
"Well, to start with I think we should get back to the drawing room. I don't think we ought to move the body, and we can't hope to discuss this mess sensibly while it's lying right there in front of us."
"Are you saying we should just leave the body here?" said Robbie Brennan.
"Why not?" said Alistair. "It's not going anywhere."
"At least cover him," said Katrina unsteadily. "Give the poor man some dignity."
"And just what are we supposed to cover him with?" asked Marc. "I'm afraid I didn't think to bring a shroud with me to breakfast."
"Maybe someone could fetch a cloak from the main hall," said David.
"No!" said Holly quickly. "You heard Richard; it's not safe for anyone to go off on their own."
"We can't just leave the man like this!" said Katrina shrilly, with a stubbornness that bordered on hysteria. "He's got to be covered decently!"
Fisher grabbed one end of the magnificent white tablecloth and gave it a good hard jerk. Food, china, cutlery, and flowers went flying in all directions. The candelabra collapsed, and rivers of spilled
wine cascaded over the sides of the table as she kept pulling. The last of the tablecloth finally came free, and Fisher draped it roughly over the dead man. Jamie stared speechlessly at the mess she'd made, and then looked at her. She smiled back at him.
"Can we get the hell out of here now?" she said pointedly. "This place makes me nervous. Besides, I need a good stiff drink, and the good brandies are back in the drawing room."
Hawk fought to keep the smile off his lips. He should have known Fisher wouldn't be able to keep up the demure young lady pose for long. He supposed he should be grateful that at least she hadn't hit anyone yet. He coughed loudly to draw everyone's attention back to him.
"If we're going to move, let's move. If nothing else, I think we'll be safer in the drawing room. It's a lot easier to defend than this place. There are too many doors here for my liking."
Alistair nodded approvingly. "Good thinking, lad. The drawing room's only got one door, and we can barricade that if necessary."
Katrina's hand rose unsteadily to her mouth, and her eyes widened. "You mean the murderer might try and attack us?"
"It's possible," said Hawk. "We don't know what we're dealing with yet."
"I think you're all worrying needlessly," said Marc. "This is one man we're talking about, not an army. If worst comes to worst, there are more than enough of us here to overpower him."
"It might not be that simple," said Jamie slowly. "There's only one man who could have done something like this. The freak. He's got out, after all these years, and he wants revenge. Revenge on the Family that walled him up alive."
Silence fell across the dining room as they all looked at each other, the tension almost crackling on the air. Hawk silently cursed the young MacNeil. He'd already worked out that the freak was most likely the murderer, but he'd wanted the others safely back in the drawing room before he told them. The last thing he needed was a panic here. He tried his cough again, and everyone's eyes shot to him.
"There'll be time to discuss all this later," he said firmly. "Right now, I want everyone concentrating on getting back to the drawing room safely."
"What gives you the right to give everyone orders?" said Marc. "Why should we listen to you?"
"Because he's talking sense," said Jamie. "All right, Richard, let's take a look out in the corridor and make sure it's clear."
The two of them moved over to the main door, eased it open a crack, then took turns peering out down the corridor. Nothing moved in the clear morning light, and the few shadows were comfortingly small. Jamie looked at Hawk.
"How do you want to do this, Richard?"
Hawk frowned. "First thing, all the men draw their swords. Just in case. I'll go first, then you and Alistair. The women will come after us, with the rest of the men bringing up the rear." He looked back at the others and gave them his best reassuring smile. "There's no reason for anyone to be worried. We're just taking sensible precautions, that's all."
None of them looked particularly convinced. Hawk sighed, and gave up on the smile. He'd always done better with a glare than a smile. He looked at Jamie for help, and the MacNeil quickly got everyone moving with a brisk mixture of tact and authority. Hawk nodded approvingly. Jamie had the right touch; that particular mixture of arrogance and charm that was the hallmark of the aristocracy. Hawk led them out into the corridor, and headed back to the drawing room at a carefully unhurried pace. It wouldn't do to take it too quickly; most of them were so rattled they'd break into a run first chance they got. And that would be a real recipe for disaster. Once they were all just running wildly, the freak could pick any one of them off without being noticed. So Hawk strode along at a casual pace, carefully checking each turn of the corridor as he came to it. Luckily he had a good head for direction. Unlike Isobel. She could get lost going to the jakes in a strange inn, and had done, before now.
The corridor seemed subtly different than it had the last time he'd walked it. The light grew dimmer as they left the windows behind them, and came to depend more and more on the wall lamps. The shadows grew darker and larger, and it was easy to imagine something cruel and menacing waiting patiently in the darkness for them to pass. Every door was a potential threat, every turn in the corridor a potential trap. The quiet seemed increasingly sinister, broken only by the soft scuffing and shuffling of their feet on the polished floor. Hawk hefted the light dueling sword in his hand, and wished more than ever for his axe.
He scowled furiously as he tried to figure out what to do next. The last time he and Fisher had been trapped in an isolated house with a group of guests and a killer on the loose, things had gone terribly wrong. He and Fisher had put a stop to the killings eventually, but not before too many innocent people had died. Hawk's frown deepened. He was damned if he'd let that happen again. He tensed and lifted his sword as someone came up alongside him, but it was only Alistair.
"Hold your water, lad, it's just me. Wanted to congratulate you on how you're handling things. You've had military experience, haven't you?"
"Actually, no," said Hawk. "I know it's not really my place to be taking charge and giving orders, but everyone else seemed too shaken, and there were things that needed to be done. We weren't safe in the dining room."
"You'll get no arguments from me on that, lad. I haven't felt easy in the Tower since I arrived. Place feels… secretive. But… do you really think the freak is that dangerous? He's only one man."
Hawk scowled unhappily. "I don't know. He's a mystery, and I don't like mysteries. When you get right down to it, the freak is most dangerous because he doesn't fit any normal pattern. Most murders involve people who know each other, people who kill either for business reasons or in the heat of passion. But we're dealing with someone who's spent centuries in solitary confinement, building his madness year by year and honing his hate to a cutting edge. He could do anything, for any reason; which means we haven't a hope in hell of out-thinking him. All we can do is stack the odds in our favor as much as we can."
"Very sensible," said Alistair. He looked thoughtfully at Hawk. "No offence, Richard, but you do seem to know an uncommon lot about murders and murderers. Mind telling me how you came by that knowledge?"
"Of course not," said Hawk, thinking quickly. "There's not much to do in Lower Markham, so I read a lot. Crime fascinates me. Especially murders. So that's what I read about. Mostly."
Alistair made no comment, just nodded and dropped back to rejoin Jamie. Hawk signed. It wasn't the best answer he could have come up with, but then, thinking on his feet had never been what he did best. Except when he was fighting. But he was going to have to be more careful. He had to think like a Guard if he was going to solve this case, but he couldn't afford to act like one. If Jamie was to find out he'd revealed his Family's darkest Secret to an outsider, and a city Guard at that…
There was a collective sigh of relief as they hurried down the last stretch of corridor and reached the drawing room without incident. Hawk was first in, and quickly checked the room was secure. He then ushered the others in, and checked the door for bolts. There weren't any, so he wedged a chair up against the door and settled for that. Some of the tension went out of him, and he let out a long, weary sigh. In a situation like this, looking out for yourself was tiring enough, without having to worry about a bunch of civilians, half of whom were jumping at their own damn shadows.
They were already splitting up into smaller groups, turning to those they trusted most for comfort and support. Jamie and Alistair were talking urgently together, with a fair amount of arm waving from both of them. David Brook and Lord Arthur were trying to help Katrina soothe Holly, who was still trembling pitifully. Marc stood with them, holding a drink for Holly, his face as calm and composed as ever. Hawk studied him a moment, frowning thoughtfully. Of them all, Marc had coped best with the situation. He might well prove a useful ally if things started getting out of control. Whatever else you could say about Marc, the man had guts. Hawk looked away, and his gaze settled on Brennan and Greaves. The
y were standing patiently together not far from Jamie and Alistair, waiting for orders. Fisher came over to join Hawk with a snifter of brandy in each hand. Hawk accepted his gratefully.
"Well?" said Fisher. "How do you read this? What the hell's going on here?"
Hawk shrugged. "You got me. What little evidence there is points in half a dozen different directions at once. I did some thinking on the way here, and I've managed to narrow it down to three main possibilities. First, and most obvious, is that the freak really has got loose, and has graduated from breaking up the furniture to killing people. That doesn't explain who the dead stranger is, though, or why the freak chose him as his first victim, rather than one of us.
"Second choice, equally obvious: This is all something to do with the spy Fenris. Perhaps the dead man was to be Fenris' contact, and someone killed him to prevent that contact taking place. Or, the dead man could be Fenris, killed by his contact for screwing up his mission. That would explain why the man's face was burned away, so that we wouldn't be able to tell who Fenris really was."
"And finally, there's choice number three: Someone in this room is a murderer, and killed that man for personal reasons that have nothing to do with Fenris or the freak."
"Great," said Fisher. "Just what we needed. As if this case wasn't complicated enough, we now have a murder mystery on our hands. Great. Bloody marvelous. All right, what do we do? Reveal who we are and take charge?"