Hilliard awoke in a start. He had been dreaming about murders and vikings and ancient runes and their mystical properties. His face was pressed against on of Castleman’s books, his hand still held the pencil he was taking notes with. He stretched and rubbed his eyes. The sun was just dawning and Hilliard was still fuzzy.
He strode to the washroom and freshened up, then returned to his writing desk to review his notes from the night prior. His notes confirmed what he had previously postulated; the runes were a type of warding symbol, each one ascribed to a victim. The prostitute was fertility, the priest was god, the constable was protection. The only problem was there was no answer for why, or who would be struck next.
Hilliard devoured any and all information from the three books he had taken from Castleman, but came up with little to nothing. He was on the brink of giving up, when he spotted something he had glanced over before. In the margin of one of the books in tiny handwriting was a simple note.
Seiðr practises of Saxons, Norse in England. Journal entry 22..
Hilliard delighted at the note. Perhaps this journal entry had something that would finally break the case open. He hastily jotted down in his notebook to return to the Castleman estate and request a look at the elder Castleman’s personal journal.
It was mid morning now, and Hilliard’s stomach reminded him that it was time to eat. He happily dressed and shaved. He took his hat from its hook and jauntily made his way to Jasper’s apartment. He wanted to tell his friend that he may have cracked the case.
It was a quick walk today. The brisk morning air was exhilarating. Hilliard tipped his cap to everyone he passed. As he approached Jasper’s place, he heard the familiar cry of the newsboy. He found the young lad on a nearby corner and paid him three pennies for a fresh issue of the Times. Tucking the paper under his arm, he finished his journey and knocked on Jasper’s door.
“Purefoy,” Jasper exclaimed when he opened the door, “how was your night of investigative research?”
“Well, funny you should ask, Merchant,” Hilliard crowed, “I had come along to let you in on my latest insights.”
Jasper rubbed his hands excitedly.
“Well, come in, come in. I have tea on the kettle and some cucumber sandwiches to smite the late morning hunger pangs.”
Hilliard entered the adobe and they both adjourned to the sitting room. Jasper made sure Hilliard was comfortable, then dashed off to the kitchen to tend to the wailing kettle. He returned with tea and sandwiches and a small tin of shortbread biscuits.
“Do tell, Hilliard, do tell!”
Jasper could barely contain his excitement. He hadn’t thought it at all interesting at first, more ghastly than anything, but when his friend and associate had become involved, he took a keen interest in the matter. Now, any tidbit of information was delicious.
“Well, I believe we may have to return to the Castleman estate. The elder Castleman has a note in one of the books I borrowed about a journal entry he has on some ritual called- oh, wait a moment,” Hilliard drew out his notebook from his breast pocket.
“Ah, a ritual called seithr. I’m not that familiar with it. I believe it could possibly be something that was practised in Saxony or parts of England during the pre-Christian era.”
Hilliard replaced his notebook in his pocket and steepled his fingers.
“This ritual is the key. I need to know what Francis’ father had discovered about it. I’m sure that from there, things will begin to fall into place.”
Jasper nodded.
“I say we should return there at once. Francis won’t mind us dropping in unannounced, I should say. First, we should eat.”
Hilliard had forgotten about the breakfast laid out before him. Once he was reminded, he dove right in, pouring himself a cup of tea and noshing on the finger sandwiches. Jasper joined him, and they ate in relative silence.
After the meal, Jasper dashed out and hired a cab. He returned for his coat and his friend. They entered the cab and instructed the driver to take them to the Castleman estate.
“Jasper, would you mind if I be frank?”
Jasper smiled and shook his head.
“I expect nothing less of you, Purefoy.”
Hilliard mulled his thought over before he finally spoke.
“Did you and Selma conjugate your relationship?”
Jasper coughed in surprise. He sputtered as he tried to regain his breath and composure. He had been sure that the question was forthcoming, but he had suspected that Hilliard would have cushioned it rather than be so blunt.
“Purefoy, that is quite a personal question.”
Hilliard nodded his head. It certainly was, but he wanted to know. It wasn’t something that he was accustomed to, and he was certain that Jasper himself was also unspoiled sexually. Or was, as it were.
“Still,” Jasper said, letting his thought hang in the air.
“I will be honest, Purefoy, in the name of friendship. Yes, yes we did.”
Hilliard again nodded his head. He had been certain that had been the case. He wasn’t sure how to respond to this revelation. The two simply sat in silence for several minutes, awkwardly shifting and trying not to catch each other’s eye.
Jasper broke the silence.
“What about you and Cordelia? How is your relationship with her?”
Hilliard thought back to their rendezvous on the sofa the day prior. He thought back to the heavy petting and sexual desire that oozed from both he and his partner. He felt her soft skin, her wet lips, her silky hair.
“Hilliard?”
Hilliard snapped back to reality.
“We-” he swallowed painfully, his throat had gone dry. “We are doing very well. We shared an intimate moment the night previous, and it was rather…”
“Amorous?”
“Consensual.”
Jasper smirked.
“Definitely amorous. Why, Hilliard, I never thought you had it in you.”
The rest of the ride to the Castleman estate was spent in conversation. Some about their love lives, some about rugby, some about the weather. At last, the cab pulled up to the arboreous entrance to the grounds.
Jasper paid the driver and the pair made their way up the verdant path winding from the front gate to the front doors of the estate house. Jasper pulled the rope, sounding the bell, and they waited. And waited. And waited.
The friends gave each other a worried look. Jasper rang again. They waited again. The atmosphere changed.
“I don’t like this, Purefoy,” Jasper ejaculated. He was tense now, his eyes had narrowed.
“Heston is not like this. He answers the bell on the first ring. Something is off, Hilliard.”
“Perhaps we should knock?”
Jasper scoffed.
“What difference would that make? The bell is louder.”
Hilliard ignored his friend and reached out a fist. As he struck the door, it creaked open ever so slightly.
“Does Francis usually keep his door unlocked?”
Jasper shook his head and pushed the door open. He quickly stepped in and surveyed the forey. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, nothing was missing or out of place.
“Castleman,” Jasper hollered, hoping his family friend would answer. The only response was the slight echo of his own voice.
“Castleman!”
This time it was more urgent, more worried. His own echo mocked him back.
“Purefoy, this isn’t right. Something is amiss. It’s not like Francis to not respond. Something is wrong.”
The pair began to scour the house, Jasper going left and Hilliard going right. Room after room was cleared with not a sign of anything wrong but the weight of certain foul play loomed over both men.
It was about ten minutes into his search when Hilliard heard his friend scream. It was a scream of sheer terror and anguish, the scream of a man who has discovered something wicked.
“Purefoy!”
Hilliard broke into a dead sprint. The sound had come from the direction of the Red Room. He broke around the corner, banging his shoulder into the door jamb. He stumbled but continued on. He burst into the Red Room ill prepared for the scene set before him.
There, sprawled out on top of the desk, was the body of Francis Castleman. He lay prostrate, his arms tied to the side legs of the desk. His back had been sliced open down the middle and his ribs had been torn away from the spine and pulled to resemble a macabre set of wings.
“Sweet God,” Jasper whispered, covering his mouth. His face had turned a shade of ashen and he looked visibly ill.
“Jasper,” Hilliard reached out to his friend, who ran out of the room. As he exited, Hilliard heard the distinct sound of emesis. Jasper returned, his face still grey, but more composed.
“What the hell is this?”
“The blood eagle.”
Jasper turned and narrowed his eyes at Hilliard.
“The blood eagle? What does that mean?”
“It was a form of punishment in viking Scandinavia. Usually, it was reserved for the worst offenders. It was done in the elements, the body left for the animals and weather to take care of.”
Hilliard approached the body.
“Who, man? Who would do this to poor Castleman? He has done nothing wrong!”
Hilliard shrugged. There was something on the floor near the body that had caught his attention. It looked like a bundle wrapped in cloth. He stepped to the side of the desk. Francis’ face was visible as he lay on his right cheek. The look of absolute agony on his face was enough to make Hilliard jump. Still, he edge forward.
“What are you doing, Hilliard?”
“There is something here on the floor. I want to-”
He reached out and pulled the cloth away to reveal a pile of human entrails. Hilliard scrambled back, nearly falling over himself.
“Jesus!”
Jasper rushed forward and became visibly ill once more. He leered into the cavity of the late Castleman to see the body was void of most of its organs.
There were no words, nothing could be said to convey the sheer horror of the moment. Hilliard regained himself and reapproached the pile of vital organs. He had a hunch. There, as he thought, carved on what he assumed was a kidney or liver, was a rune. ᛟ.
“Jasper,” he couldn’t finish the thought. The idea that Wicked John had been here. Here, in contact with someone familiar. A cold chill ran down Hilliard’s spine.
“God in heaven, Wicked John was-”
Hilliard and Jasper both looked at each other in disbelief. Hilliard’s eyes shot wide open. He made his way around the desk and pried the drawer open.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing, Purefoy?”
“I need to get that journal, Jasper. It has the entry I need to figure out this damnable situation. I need to know what this Wicked John, whoever he is, is doing and how to stop it!”
Hilliard rummaged through the drawer before producing a leather bound journal. He stuck the book in his pocket before making for the door. Jasper still stood aghast.
“Merchant,” snapped Hilliard, “we must leave and inform the authorities!”
Jasper pulled himself away from the grisly scene and followed Hilliard through the house, winding their way through narrow corridors and doorways. The two found themselves in the grand forey, their steps echoing through the marbled room.
“Where do you suppose Heston is?”
Jasper, panting, sputtered his question as they dashed through the entrance and out of the house. Hilliard shrugged, clutching the journal to his breast.
“I don’t feel like going back to find him, leave that to the authorities!”
Jasper tacitly agreed as they continued to run down the drive and toward the wood that separates the estate grounds from the common land. The cab they had hired would not return for another hour, so it was that Hilliard and Jasper would have to make their way back to central London on foot.