the detached head was found nearby, close to the row of bookshelves at which it was assumed, he had been working when tragedy struck. The fact that truly baffled Dryer was that, despite the obvious ferocity of the fire, which must have been severe—intense enough to reduce a man to nothing more than a heap of bone and ash—there was little or no damage to the immediate surroundings.
The whole library should have gone up like a tinderbox.
Stevens shook his head in disbelief as he emerged from behind one of the rows of books. “This is absolutely unreal. There’s no sign of intrusion, and once again no presence of flammable material. Really, John, I’ve got no idea how this happened. According to Miss Fowler who had found the ‘body’, Doctor Bentley was working late last night, going through some of the catalogues and rearranging the books. He was alone from six o’clock when she left.”
The smell was dreadful, repellent, eye-watering. It reminded Dryer of the time he had almost set his kitchen ablaze after forgetting about the rashers of bacon he had been grilling for breakfast. It had taken two days to remove the offensive smell even after opening all of the windows to ensure maximum ventilation. At least the first burnt remains had been discovered out in the open, but here—
For some macabre reason he felt as though his eyes were being constantly drawn to the severed head. “That look on his face,” he commented. “It’s as though he was witness to something absolutely horrendous.”
“I agree.” Stevens knelt down and put on his surgical gloves. Gingerly, he lifted the head, scrutinising the grisly piece of evidence. “Just like the other one. There’s no sign of cauterization, leading me to the fairly confident conclusion that it was removed prior to the actual fire by means of a sharp-bladed implement.”
“You mean he was decapitated. Then set alight?”
“I’m pretty sure of it.”
“But how? Why? And you realise that we’re now looking at murder?”
“It would appear so.” Stevens began delicately sifting through the ashes. “And Laynham’s still in hospital, so he’s out of the frame.”
“Right. Time to pay that oddball Smith a visit. I’ve had a feeling about him—”
“Here we are.” Stevens retrieved something from the smouldering pile.
“What is it?” There was a faint trace of reluctance in Dryer’s question; a quavering in his voice indicative of his concern. It was as though he dreaded hearing the answer.
“If I’m not mistaken, I’d say it’s one of those bronze heads.”
* * * * * * *
It was late afternoon when Dryer drove out to Smith’s house and the light was already fading from the sky. This part of town was not well known to him, and he looked in admiration at the large, handsome houses on either side of the road. There were some pleasing Georgian buildings with what he always thought of as ‘open features’: warm, welcoming kinds of homes. Driving further along the street, checking the numbers as he went, he was a little disappointed as the style of architecture changed to Victorian. The simple, rectangular windows were replaced by pointed gables and slightly mediaeval-looking decoration. Number Twenty-Three, which appeared on his right hand, was another Victorian Gothic edifice with a high wall and an iron gate. He parked his car and got out, pulling his coat tighter to stave off the chill air. Pushing open the gate, he then strode briskly to the front door, noticing that Smith must own the whole house, for there was no evidence of it having been divided into flats as so many of these larger houses commonly were.
The curiously wrought iron door-knocker was fashioned in the shape of a grotesque half-man, half-bull hybrid with bizarre curly hair, and Dryer hesitated for a moment before using it. Three dull echoes chased themselves along the hallway beyond and yet, surprisingly, made comparatively little exterior sound as though strangely muffled.
The best part of a minute passed, and he was about to knock once more when he heard the rattle of several security chains and then the door opened the narrowest of cracks.
“Yes?” The voice was weird, alien almost.
That single word, that one question, prompted Dryer to take a couple of steps back. He could see little of the individual beyond, but he got the impression that the other was tall and somehow intimidating. Was it just his imagination, or did he see a neon flash of violet in the shadows beyond?
“I—I’ve come to see Mr Smith. Is he—is he in?” An inner voice was calling out to Dryer to leave this place whilst he had the chance. To get away, whilst his mind and body remained intact. There was strangeness here; a conclusion he had reached within two minutes of standing on the doorstep. How much worse were things going to be inside?
“Yes.” There was no alteration in the voice at all. No change in tone or inflection, and yet that one word response seemed to imply something far greater than a mere affirmation.
Dryer was uncomfortable with the current situation. He felt awkward, not knowing how to initiate any form of further dialogue. Mustering his courage, he stepped forward, instilling some level of authority back into his manner. “If Mr. Smith is in, it’s important that I speak to him. This is official police business. I must ask that you step aside and admit me entrance.”
In utter silence the door swung open, permitting Dryer to enter.
It was dim and shadowy, and yet Dryer did a double-take upon making out the other’s admittedly tenebrous dimensions. He must have stood over seven, perhaps eight feet in height, and he was as slim as a beanpole. Eyeing the lanky giant suspiciously, he gulped and strode inside. No sooner had he crossed the threshold and taken a few short steps into the hall than the door swung shut behind him.
Sudden luminosity brightened the long, narrow room as two chandeliers flared into light.
Dryer’s heart leapt into his mouth as he noticed that he was alone. There was no sign of the weird being that had opened the door, nor was there anywhere he could have gone, unless he had somehow managed to slip outside even as he had come inside. That explanation seemed impossible, however, considering the size of the individual. A small, fleet-footed child might have been able to pull off such a dextrous feat, but—
Even as he stared, perplexed, bewildered, his eyes blinking unbelievingly, Dryer heard a muffled, dull-sounding explosion come from somewhere almost directly overhead. There then came a shout, followed by a second bang somewhat louder than the first. The lights shook and flickered for a moment.
“What the hell!?” Dryer cursed savagely and stared with some alarm at the ceiling, half-expecting it to come crashing down in a cave-in of beams and plaster. Fear rooted him to the spot for several heartbeats, and there was a tingling in his spine that felt as though a trickle of ice was beginning to slowly seep down his back. He was about to spin round and open the front door—assuming that it had not been mysteriously locked—in order to escape, when he saw Smith appear at the top of the staircase at the end of the hall.
“Inspector. If you’d be so good as to get up here as quickly as—”
Before Smith could finish, the front door, now at Dryer’s back, juddered fiercely. It was as though something powerful had taken hold of the entire frame and had given it a good shake. The locks rattled like a violent lunatic in chains.
“Quick! Upstairs!” shouted Smith.
Uncertain
