Reginald Hackney of the London Metropolitan Police Force had been walking along Stacey Street towards Phoenix Street. It had been a quiet night so far, but he still had to patrol Phoenix Park, where he suspected he would find some miscreants lollygagging and up to shenanigans; they always were.
As he strolled along he spun his truncheon about, whistling an old English tune. He had forgotten the name, but he thought it had something to do with a cuckoo bird. He was enjoying the damp night when he was approached by a rather tall man wearing a bowler hat and a satchel over his shoulder. The man seemed to be running, or trotting rather, toward Officer Hackney and waving his arms about his head.
“Constable! Constable!”
His voice was raspy and throaty, almost as if he were descended from a lineage of toads. It was hard to make out his face on the late twilight hours, but Hackney thought he wore an expression of shock and terror.
“Alright, alright, what’s with it, then?”
The man took a moment to catch his breath, lacing his fingers around the back of his head and gasping. He tried to stammer out something, but Hackney stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“Catch your breath, mate, then tell me what it is you’ve got.”
The man finally calmed down. His voice quavered as he spoke.
“The church, constable! The poet’s church, St Giles! The vicar, he’s… he’s…”
Hackney smacked his truncheon into the palm of his hand authoritatively.
“He’s what? Out with it!”
“Nailed up on the wych elm!”
The words sputtered out of the man’s mouth, smacking the officer in the face. He stood, mouth agape, trying to process the information. After a beat, he shook himself from his stupor.
“My God, what heathen would do such a thing?”
With that, he lit out, tearing his way to the great wych elm tree that stood on the property line between the church lawn and the park. The man tried to keep pace, but his limping lope set him behind Hackney.
The grisly sight unfolded as Hackney drew nearer the tree. The priest had indeed been nailed upon the wych elm. Hackney approached cautiously. He surveyed the crime scene, knowing that the perpetrator could still be near.
The man caught up with Hackney, puffing and out of breath. He doubled over, putting his hands on his knees.
“See?”
Hackney looked above the cleric’s head and saw a symbol carved into the trunk of the tree. It was similar to the one left at the crime scene of Red Jenny’s murder, except this symbol had an additional arm, making it look like a capital F with both arms written at a 45 degree downward angle.
“God almighty,” whispered Hackney, “this must be the same lunatic who killed that prostitute.”
“It is,” the man behind Hackney rattled, his voice low and phlegmy, resonating from his chest.
“It’s a similar mark above his head, so I would suspect-”
That was the last that constable Hackney could get out before a knife plunged itself into his back, through his right kidney. His mouth filled with a wet, metallic taste as he began to bleed internally. His confusion stopped any attempt at a scream.
The man pulled the knife from Hackney and plunged it again into his back again, and again, and again. The man lost count after the twentieth stab, he just knew that the job had been completed.
The man rolled the police officer over. His face was stuck in a perpetual death mask of confusion and anguish. The man gently reached out and closed Hackney’s eyes. He took the knife, and on the officer’s forehead, he began to carve.
***