“Will there be a reply?” Twigg enquired.
“No,” Hawkwood said.
Read frowned.
“Quill’s completed his examination,” Hawkwood said. “I should go.”
“Oh, by all means,” Read said drily. “Don’t let us detain you.”
Ezra Twigg glanced towards the Chief Magistrate; when no further directive was forthcoming, he turned for the door. Hawkwood followed.
“Officer Hawkwood,” Read called again.
Curbing his irritation, Hawkwood turned and saw that the Chief Magistrate had left the sanctuary of his desk and resumed his pose in front of the fire.
The magistrate raised his chin. “There is one thing I neglected to mention.”
“Sir?”
James Read held Hawkwood’s gaze for perhaps three or four seconds. Then the corner of his mouth twisted to form an oblique smile.
“Welcome back.”
When Hawkwood re-entered the dead room, there was no shouted order to close the door and this time, when Quill turned to greet him, there was no humour in the surgeon’s expression, either. Instead, Quill’s face looked as if it had been carved from stone. The cellar appeared darker than it had before; colder, too, perhaps because of Quill’s less than welcoming disposition. The smell, though, was as bad as ever.
Taking his cue from the room’s chilly atmosphere, Hawkwood did not speak as he took the note from his pocket and held it up. Quill crooked a finger and, with a rising sense of dread, Hawkwood followed him across to the examination table.
The body was there, covered by the sheet. Wordlessly, Quill drew the material aside.
The corpse now lay on its back in the prone position, hands by its sides. This time the eyes were fully closed but it was not to her eyes that Hawkwood’s attention was drawn. It was to the dead woman’s abdomen and the trauma that had been inflicted upon it.
“They’re not stab wounds,” Hawkwood said cautiously. “They don’t look deep enough.”
“No,” Quill said. “I was mistaken. She was not stabbed.”
“Scratched, then.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I’m not with you.”
Quill reached for a candle. “Take this.”
Hawkwood took the light and held it above the body. Caught in a sudden draught, the candle flame fluttered and then steadied. He stared down at the wounds, which still looked nothing more than a series of random score marks angled across the surface of the skin. While they were not deep, they were not that shallow, either. They were the sort of cuts which, suffered singly, might have been caused by catching the skin on a rusty nail; quick to bleed but, by the same token, quick to close and form a scab. Lowering the flame, Hawkwood allowed his eyes to follow the progression of the wounds across the width of the body. Only then was he able to take in what Quill had seen.
The first letter that had been carved into the flesh was a sharp-angled
“C-A-R-I-T-A-S,” Quill said, “in case you were wondering.”
“I can spell, damn it!” Hawkwood stared at the cuts. “What I don’t know is what the hell it’s doing there. Is it even a word?”
Quill said calmly, “I believe it’s Latin.”
“Latin?”
“It means charity.”
Hawkwood turned.
Quill gave what could have been interpreted as an apologetic shrug. “Latin studies; one of the consequences of a classical education, though a necessity when considering a career in medicine.”
Hawkwood returned his attention to the body.
“This is not something I’ve come across before,” Quill said. “You?”
Hawkwood found his voice. “Not like this.”
“Like this?” Quill countered sharply.
“When I was in Spain, the guerrilleros used to mutilate the bodies of dead French soldiers as a warning to others.”
“They wrote messages in the flesh?”
“No, usually they’d cut something off. Noses, fingers, cocks. It scared the Frogs shitless.”
“I can imagine,” Quill said, adding pointedly, “Not quite the same though.”
“No,” Hawkwood agreed. “Not quite.”
Quill let out a sigh. “But bad enough.”
“Yes.”
Quill held Hawkwood’s gaze. His expression was even darker than it had been before.
“Did you find anything else?” Hawkwood asked, wondering what other horrors might be lurking.
“No,” Quill said. “Mercifully. She was not violated – not as we understand the term, at any rate, though my examination did reveal that she was no stranger to coition.”
There followed a moment’s pause then Quill chewed his lip and said pointedly, “Fore and aft.”
Offering a contrite shrug for having used the phrase, the surgeon made a face. “Your suspicions regarding her likely profession would, therefore, appear to have merit.”
“Then cover her up, for Christ’s sake.” Hawkwood stepped away from the table, allowing Quill to draw the sheet over the body. He turned back. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to snap.”
“No apology required,” Quill said.
“I want him,” Hawkwood said. “I want the bastard who did this.”
“Him?” Quill said.
“Him.
