5 Chapter 5

"Your uncle was right," Angel said, "and I was wrong. Found another body."

"Another girl?" Margaret asked. He nodded. "Looks like me?" Miss Sheridan decided to clarify. Angel nodded again and turned to the window, arms folded across his chest. Only the moon lit the room, and he, standing in the middle of the white square, suddenly seemed to the girl too fragile for all this - evil spirits, undead, spells and maniac sorcerers. He was not inferior in height to Mr. Longsdale, but was not even slender, but thin, although (Margaret blushed slightly) to the touch as sinewy as a big wild cat. Another thing is the consultant: she remembered how easily he carried her and how much inhuman power was in his hands.

"Inhuman," the girl thought. "And Angel is a human."

"You are not to blame," she whispered, touching his shoulder. Angel turned to her. In the moonlight, his hair and eyes were completely black, and his face was pale as a ghost, with sharpened cheekbones and a hooked nose.

"To blame. I had to kill them." A cold, cruel brilliance flashed in his eyes. "And even before they touched you."

He ran his fingers along Margaret's cheek, and this touch was surprisingly gentle, given how viciously he looked at the arms of the girl, from which the bruises had not yet disappeared.

"I came to them, but late," Redfern snapped. "Someone killed them before me and too mercifully. What am I good for," he added muffledly and irritably, "if I don't see what is under my nose"

"But you are not a hunter," Margaret said gently, "you told me. You do all these things hunters need, but do not hunt yourself."

"But I can protect myself and, therefore, I must protect you."

The girl turned pink again. This was much more pleasant than the courtships with which she was pestered by applicants for her hand, heart and dowry cared for her. She covered Angel's hand with hers and pressed her cheek to his palm. He shuddered so much as if Margaret had bitten him.

"I am alive because you taught me to "freeze and see," she said fondly. "Do not be so... so self-flagellation."

Redfern looked at her silently; his gaze made her feel embarrassed and confused, because no one had ever looked at her so piercingly, eagerly and ... and carefully at the same time. Margaret became uncomfortable, and she looked down. Angel stepped back from her.

"You are the surviving victim. They will interrogate you again."

"I will not say anything," the girl stubbornly answered. "About you."

"I know," he said surprisingly softly. "I know you won't say it, and the Commissar will still not interrogate you with partiality."

"With what?" Margaret interested.

"And besides," Angel went on busily, grabbing a frock coat from her bed, "he doesn't care about me anymore. But while he is investigating with the help of police methods, I will deal with this matter with the help of mine."

"And I?" Miss Sheridan cried plaintively.

"You are still in danger — the killer know certainly that you have survived and is waiting for the right moment to finish the job."

"So I have to sit locked up and weep with horror in anticipation of death? You are worse than my mother now!"

Angel grunted, opened the dressing room door, and Margaret blurted out:

"That is, you came to me at night only to indulge in self-flagellation, like these medieval... like them..."

"Flagellants," the mentor said with a smile.

"...and then immediately run away?!"

"Oh, and I, therefore, cannot come to you just like that, without a great purpose?"

Margaret was silent, biting her lip. Say "No!" would be too impolite (and also untrue), but to beg?!

"Twelfth hour," remarked Angel. "It's time for gentle young ladies to sleep in their beds."

"The gentle young ladies would have slept in them," Margaret assured him poisonously, "if someone had not thrown his coats, frock-coats and canes on the beds, when he comes in to chat about the killings at night."

Angel raised an eyebrow at her (it was still annoying!), looked at her quilted skirt without crinoline (one was warm wool on top) and turned to the dressing room:

"Where is your coat?"

"Where will we go?" Margaret asked eagerly, buttoning the tight buttons.

"Your uncle and his consultant are engaged in the body, and we are engaged in the place."

"There are two of them."

"So, two," Angel led her to the mirror and hugged her tightly. Margaret clung to him in response, and he suddenly touched her hair with his lips. The girl's heart froze for a moment. She didn't expect it!.. but he had already done so much for her, and she never thanked him!

"Thank you," Margaret muttered awkwardly and squeezed his hand.

"Think about the road," Angel whispered. Miss Sheridan took a breath and focused on the deeply trampled snow trail.

They left the pharmacy's glass door and found themselves in front of a carriage harnessed by an unusually beautiful bay couple. Margaret admired the horses of an unknown breed, with thick curly manes and tails. Angel helped her get inside and He threw a bearskin on her.

"Where are we going?"

"First to the park, then to the place where you were attacked," he picked up the reins and whistled briefly. The horses snored and rushed forward so that Margaret fell into the back of the seat. Streets flashed, swiftly flying past. Angel turned on her - dark eyes flashed recklessly, like a boy at his first race, and Margaret screeched with ecstasy. She had never ridden so fast! They rushed through the night streets like a meteor, and even the wind barely had time to pinch the girl by her cheeks.

Pleasure ended at the eastern gate of the park. Nearby the policeman watched out, but Angel, stepping the horses forward, muttered a curse as they passed by, and the eyes of the guardian of order were glazed.

"How does he know so many of them?" Margaret thought enviously, leaning on Redfern's arm to get out of the carriage. Angel figured out the lock on the gate even faster and told the girl to take the bag from the carriage.

"Why here?" Miss Sheridan asked as they walked along the tuff track. "Well, besides being very quiet and deserted... isn't it wiser to kill victims in different places?"

"Something draws him here. Either he feels it instinctively, like an animal, or he knows for sure."

"What does he know?"

"Have you heard of bad places?"

"About what?" Margaret blushed.

"Not the ones that your nannies and governesses forbidden you to touch!" He snorted. "Bad places arise where the border between our world and other side is thinning. It doesn't necessarily require an idiot with a ritual like the Strangler. Sometimes they arise on their own, and sometimes... sometimes..." Angel suddenly fell silent and frowned. They walked silently for a while, until Margaret decided to squeak:

"And sometimes?"

"Sometimes," Redfern said quietly, "in the place where many people suffered and died."

His voice became so muffle that the girl barely understood the answer and did not dare to continue the conversation. In silence, they reached the first crime scene.

"Not fenced," Angel said irritably. "Come in whoever wants, take what you need."

"What are you grumbling about? It's more convenient for us."

"For the killer, too."

Margaret opened her bag, muttered "Lumia" and let out a flying lamp - a glass ball in which a golden light fluttered. Angel climbed into the bushes and squatted at the crime scene. Miss Sheridan picked up her skirts and carefully crept past the sticking branches.

"Oh Lord," she breathed, seeing the remnants of brown porridge, fragments of bone which stuck in the birch trunk and bloody spots on the white bark.

"Give the tongs."

Margaret handed him the tongs and the box. Angel pulled out a few pieces of bone with some difficulty and threw it into the box.

"Let's see what they tell us," he put on his glasses with greenish glasses and thoroughly examined the place where the body lay. When he got up, he was clearly confused. He pulled off his glasses and began to gnaw at the glasses temple, looking angrily at the snow that had seized with brown ice.

"How is it?" the girl asked.

- Nothing. Nobody conjured here. Murder is the most ordinary, and if he had not used hypnosis and mortiferum somno ... - Angel fell silent, stared at Margaret, and his eyes, already rather big, also widened. He broke out of the bushes like a young deer, rushed several yards along the path to the side where the second girl was killed, froze and suddenly spun like a whirligig, trying to look out for something among the trees. Miss Sheridan put the tongs and the box into her bag, beckoned the ball behind her and went to the mentor, who again froze, staring at the spiers of the town hall and the crosses of the cathedral, which were visible above the fence.

"Do you know what was here?" Redfern grabbed her hand.

"Before the revolution? Well... it seems to be a park for aristocrats. Now the park is for the people, kill at least every day - no one will notice."

"No!" Angel cried impatiently. "No! Before! Even earlier!"

"I don't know," Margaret answered, having lost all sarcasm from his tone.

"It's the Damn Bald," Redfern's eyes lit up excitedly. "At the end of the fifteenth century there was a plague barrack. People were dying in the hundreds on this very earth!" he stamped along the path and whispered: "The distance to the town hall and the cathedral; of course, I remember..."

"You want to say," Margaret flinched, "that we are now standing on a common grave?"

"Yes! The city was much smaller, two wings have not yet been added to the town hall, but the main spire was already then, and the cathedral, see?" Angel pointed a finger for clarity. "Even when a hundred years passed, They still forbade us..." he whispered.

ЭWait, I'm confused. What a hundred years? I mean, a hundred years have passed after the plague barracks or..." Margaret choked; it suddenly dawned on her what his reservation meant. "In what sense - you remember?! How can you remember that?!"

He still held her hand, and the girl felt how much he twitched. Angel looked at her as if a child who had spilled about pranks blinked and declared:

"I remember the maps of the old city very well."

Margaret's eyes narrowed. Angel cheered up and continued:

"So, at the end of the fifteenth century there was a plague barracks, a hundred years later - the Damn Bald, where no one risked building, and at the end of the seventeenth century a certain dumb city governor set up a park here. What does this tell us?"

"That someone lying."

"That so many people died here in agony," Angel don't succumb, "that the line between this and other side has become thinner. And maybe... maybe..." He bit his lip and whispered: "Oh no! Not so much time... or did he survive too... but if so, then where is the hole?.."

Margaret carefully felt a pulse on his wrist. It seemed to be beating like a human's, and his hand was warm, and he too... And he breathed as hot as any human - with clouds of steam in the frosty air. Angel stared absently at the spiers and crosses, and Margaret pricked her conscience. Well, maybe he really meant the old cards?

"This is all completely incoherent," Angel muttered at last, almost upset. "He just kills girls with someone else's hands and then kills the killers. But he does not perform any ritual! And what does the plague barracks, the park and..."

"Wait," Margaret frowned. "So you think he killed those three in the hospital? But then there must be two more corpses - the killers of the first girl and the killers of the second! Or at least one if the killer is the same."

Redfern turned to her.

"Indeed," he said slowly; in his eyes, the girl literally saw the feverish rushing of thoughts. "Where else are the corpses? Tell your uncle to look for it."

"Okay, I'll tell him. And you?"

"And I will take you home. We have nothing more to do here."

"But what about the alley where they attacked me?"

"Then," Angel frowned. "First I need to check something."

19th February

Brennon was re-reading the autopsy report. The goods of the murdered girls were laid out on a table in the same room, where until recently there was evidence on the Strangler case. The description of the victims, as far as it could be compiled, was distributed to all the police. Nathan asked for help from the Commissar of the Vice Department, and he promised to question the pimps about the missing prostitutes. Gallagher rummaged in reports of disappearance, Byrne interrogated the park keeper. Brennon let go of the consultant and the witch, in case the maniac sorcerer suddenly manifests himself and they urgently need magical help.

The Commissar read up the reports, opened them on the cause of death, and laid them on the table. Now he was tormented by a single question - did one or two killers roam around the city? Of course, it is tempting to assume that a pyromaniac of revenge killed the three attackers on Margaret, but Longsdale denied this possibility.

"But why do the maniac kill in two different ways?" Brennon thought. "Why did he kill two victims in the park and attacked Peg in the alley? Did he see a suitable girl and could not restrain himself? Why would he need any helpers, if he himself is wonderful coping? "

Or the park and Taynor Creek Street, where Peg was attacked, are somehow connected in the minds of the killer. But how?

There was a knock on the door; the attendant brought Brennon a note from Kennedy and said:

"Miss Sheridan is waiting for you downstairs."

"Okay, bring her here," Brennon decided, hesitating, and unfolded the note.

"Second victim: left cheek," it said. "Cut off with the same weapon."

The commissar signed below: "The first victim - the right cheek" and put the paper between the folders because Margaret entered the room.

"Good morning, uncle," she said coldly, sank into a chair and gave the folders a quick, interested look.

"Kh-xh-mm..." Nathan answered vaguely. We must apologize, but how? "Uh ... good."

"I came on business," the girl continued; he felt a clear hostility in her and was all the more surprised that she had some business with him. "As far as I understand, it is already pointless to hide from you that one person is talking to me."

"Peg, I just wanted to say..."

"Of course, I'm curious why you didn't tell everything to mom, but this is not about that."

"I did not want to upset..."

"I have a message from him," said Peg, having completely destroyed any desire to apologize in the Commissar.

"Message," he said heavily. "Which is?"

"He advises you to look for a couple more dead. Or one, if both girls were killed by one person."

"Why on earth?"

"The maniac killed those who attacked me, and quite likely has the habit of killing all the assistants."

"Yeah. If it's not your guardian angel having so fun."

Margaret's eyes flashed angrily:

"You know perfectly well that not. Mister Longsdale should tell you, because he can determine for sure."

"Who told you?"

"I guessed myself," Margaret snapped and stood up. "And mom is waiting you for tomorrow's dinner. Undoubtedly, to beat out your confession about me."

Brennon had already opened his mouth for a sharp answer, when suddenly there was a noise from below, screams, stamping, and a minute later the attendant burst into the office without knocking.

"Sir! The suspect... the keeper... he broke his head against the wall in the interrogation room!"

"For f***'s sake!" The commissar growled and rushed down. He shot through the reception like a meteor, and burst into the interrogation room, where Kennedy was already to stop the bleeding and return the park keeper to consciousness. Byrne pressed against the wall, looking at them with almost horror.

"It's not me, sir!" the detective shouted, barely seeing Nathan. "I swear to God, I just wrote down his name and place of birth, and he answered, and everything was calm, and then... he just got up and from the takeoff smashed his head against the wall!"

"Kennedy, what's wrong with him?!"

"If we can get him to the hospital in time, we may be able to save," the old man snapped. "The stretcher! Caution! The slightest concussion-and one less suspect!"

"What about him?" Nathan hissed, catching the pathologist by the sleeve. Kennedy sighed softly and said a little audibly:

"Cerebral edema. The chances are minimal.��

"It's not me!" Byrne exclaimed again. "He just got up and... and... I didn't even have time to begin the interrogation!"

"Give me what you wrote down."

The detective handed Brennon one sheet. "Frank Ryan, born in 1803, park keeper of Freedom Park since 1858. Single, parents have died, lives alone at the address..." - then the line ended with a downward stroke. An ink stain was surrounded by spatter of blood.

"To my office," Brennon ordered. Byrne swallowed hard and walked out of the interview room, his head down. Then they carried out the keeper Ryan. Nathan ordered the interrogation room to be washed and went out, oppressed not only by what happened, but also by the fact that the damned pyroman seemed to be right - the maniac was getting rid of his assistants. And the most heinous - he is doing it from a distance.

...left alone in the office, Margaret snatched a lone piece of paper from a pile of folders, read it, shuddered, and quickly slipped it back.

***

"See?" Longsdale poked a metal wand into the brain of the deceased. "This is a hemorrhage caused by a sharp and gross effect."

"Magical?" The commissar asked sourly. The consultant nodded.

"We can examine the brain of the two previous victims," the witch intervened. "Surely the same there."

"Good thought," agreed Brennon, involuntarily moving away from the body of the caretaker Ryan. An opened skull did not seem to him a marvelous sight.

"But the hemorrhage itself is not fatal," Longsday finished and threw his wand into the cuvette. In another corner of the police morgue, Kennedy was performing an autopsy on the second victim. The medical students surrounding the table aroused vague hostility in Brennon - you can't, damn it, with such joyful enthusiasm to gut the dead! The commissar sat down on a chair. Longsdale returned the cut-off top of the skull to its place and covered Frank Rain with a sheet. The hound curled up into a ball at the feet of Nathan and poked its wet nose into his palm. Brennon ran a hand over the thick hound mane.

"And you, Red, can't tell us anything?"

The hound shook its head. The commissar was languidly surprised at such a human reaction.

"Can anyone explain why the maniac killed three people in one way, two in the other, and one in the third?"

"Is that important?" Jen was surprised, helping the consultant to remove the splattered apron. "He's a maniac. As he wants, he kills."

"Maybe it doesn't important," Brennon said through set teeth. "But I'm not sure. The hospital has a round-the-clock staff on duty, so the maniac could easily find a puppet to kill the three of them. He, in the end, dealt with Ryan right in our interrogation room, without a personal presence."

"Well, he's crazy," the witch shrugged. "You'd think he'd need a reason to do something."

"No. That's just it. I saw maniacs - Selinhem's one, for example, killed only blondes, on certain dates, which he calculated according to his scheme, and strictly with one instrument - a guitar string. I saw those who killed just like that, in a sudden rush - but so that both methods at the same time?"

"The Commissar is right," Longsdale said. "The big heads of psychiatric science distinguish two types of such insanity - one encourages you to just kill, and the second - to furnish it as a kind of rite. But the same person cannot suffer from these two disorders at the same time. In the light of what Mister Kennedy discovered - namely, the second cut off cheek - I think the maniac is preparing some kind of ritual. But I still can't understand which one."

"So he's not crazy?"

"Well, I would not rule out madness."

"Fine," Brennon muttered.

"True," Longsdale continued thoughtfully, "it could be connected to the place. With this your park."

"And Taynor Creek? Peg was attacked there."

"I do not know. Maybe he just could not restrain himself when he saw a suitable girl?"

"Even better. Well, at least I know what I'll do now."

The hound raised its ears inquiringly.

"I'll ambush Taynor Creek. Let's hope we are all lucky."

"Good," Longsdale grabbed his frock coat and coat. "And we are exploring the park. After all, something attracts a maniac in it."

"Something," muttered Nathan, "uninhabited secluded places, what else."

He rose to his office, reflecting on the theory of places. Maybe the matter is really in the park itself? But how to associate the street with it? And the hospital? And can a human perform magic without spells, like a witcher or a witch?

"Lord," Brennon sighed drearily. "What am I thinking!"

Fortunately, Gallagher was waiting for him at the door, tall, red-haired and clumsy. Just the embodiment of real, mundane life. He handed the Commissar a piece of paper - missing person's report, written with errors and dripped in tears in some places.

"Macy Flynn, sir, the Shihans maid. They give her a day off on Wednesdays, and she goes to her parents in the village. She did not come this Wednesday, and now... they are here in the reception."

Downstairs, Nathan quickly found a farmer who hesitantly wrinkled his hat, then putting it on, then pulling it off, and his wife - she clung to her husband's hand and scaredly looked around all the time.

"Mister Flynn?" Brennon asked quietly; the farmer jumped to his feet, pulling his wife along, and finally crumpled his hat. "I am Commissar Brennon, major crimes division."

Mrs. Flynn gasped weakly and fell onto the bench.

"I'm about..." Mr. Flynn mumbled. "My daughter is..."

"Please follow me. Gallagher, tell Kennedy to prepar the first one."

The detective nodded and disappeared. Brennon hesitated, giving them time to gather them strength, and slowly headed for the stairs to the morgue. He heard the shuffling of farm boots and the woman's mincing walk. At the door, Nathan stopped, put his hand on a long metal handle and turned to the Flynns.

"Can you identify your daughter by her body?"

Mrs. Flynn cried out in a strangled voice and clutched at her husband. He silently tugged at his hat and bit his mustache, looking at the floor.

"Why the body?" Mr. Flynn finally managed.

"Her face was not preserved."

The farmer looked at him. Brennon waited in silence, not looking away. Sooner or later you need to get used to it - otherwise you get drunk to hell...

"So maybe it's not her," Mrs. Flynn said timidly.

"Maybe not her," Nathan agreed. "So, will you identify or not?"

"Well," Mrs. Flynn licked her lips, "I will try."

The commissar pushed the door. The body was covered with an old clean sheet; instead of the head of the deceased, Kennedy laid a pillow. Giggling students stumbled into a flock in a corner.

Миссис Флинн пошатнулась и схватила своего мужа. Он снова уставился в пол, когда Кеннеди начал медленно поворачивать простыню. Бреннон молча смотрел на женщину. Может быть, ей повезло - или, может быть, им повезет, и они, наконец, опознают мертвую девочку. Внезапно лицо миссис Флинн изогнулось, губы дрожали, и, несколько раз указав пальцем на пару старых шрамов на руке покойного, она уткнулась в своего мужа и едва слышно скулила. Кеннеди бросил простыню на тело. Мистер Флинн украдкой взглянул на останки, тупо вздохну�� и крепко прижал усы рукой.

«Галлахер, отнеси их ко мне», - приказал Бреннон и резко повернулся к студентам.

"Хорошо?" комиссар сказал резко. "Веселье? Хочешь снова посмеяться?

Будущие врачи смотрели на него подавленно и испуганно.

«И так для всех», - сказал Натан и ударил кулаком по столу с телом. "Каждый из них. Они приходят ко всем, - он кивнул в сторону двери, где исчезли мистер и миссис Флинн. «Ну, кто еще рад?» студенты шумели и качали головами. «Так что иди на работу!»

Он захлопнул за собой дверь и быстро ушел. Иногда он все еще думал, что легче напиться.

Next chapter