Whispers of Murder
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The man looked up, his gaze flicking across the faces around him in silence. They had gathered around a low wooden table with a map spread on it. A dozen or so men were crammed into one corner of an otherwise empty room, and the only sound was the crackling of the fire between them.
He was in the attic of the house, a long way from home, but this was where he could find what he needed. It took some effort to ignore the discomfort – even more than usual – caused by sitting naked in the open air.
But there would be no more interruptions today.
His business here was complete. All that remained for him now was to get out of town before the police caught up with him. He had given his word as a gentleman to help Mr. Smith and his family with whatever they needed, and while he didn’t feel too bad about lying to Mrs. Smith about what happened that night, she did not deserve the attention of the authorities over something so trivial.
As a former policeman himself, he knew all too well how such cases could drag on for months or even years, especially when the accused was a respectable member of society like John Smith. Even if it wasn’t a murder case, his family’s name would take a battering.
He felt his pocket, and the reassuring presence of his knife reassured him further. The police might still be searching for clues, but he wouldn’t risk leaving the city until he had been sure of his cover-up. If any of the local boys found out that someone with such a connection to the crime had just walked out of there… Well, that would put things right back to square one.
The first thing he’d do after reaching the train station was book a ticket home.
A small hand squeezed his shoulder, startling him. He looked down at the woman who had come up behind him without being noticed. She was short and plump with curly grey hair that framed her face, and she wore a simple black dress that showed off her generous bust, making him feel uncomfortably aware of the knife he carried against his ribs.
“Mr. Caulder?” Her voice was deep, throaty, and filled with sympathy. “I am so sorry.”
She was a good two decades older than he was. But the warmth in her eyes made him feel as if she were looking straight through him, into the darkest recesses of his mind. As she spoke, his thoughts returned to the dead young man lying on the floor of the living room.
It would have been easy enough to blame the boy’s death on the storm – the wind that ripped the front door open, the rain that drenched the house, the lightning that cut him down. That had worked last time. Why shouldn’t it work again? And then he would have been free. There would have been no questions asked, and no consequences.
And yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“I’m afraid I can’t accept your condolences,” he said.
Mrs. Smith had been right. This place really was cursed.
***
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
When he woke the next morning, he stretched out stiffly and tried to shake his head clear of sleep. It took a few moments before he realized where he was, and then his stomach lurched violently. The pain hit him as soon as he tried to sit up.
A wave of nausea swept over him, followed by sharp cramps in his abdomen. His body felt heavy and sluggish. He reached over to check his side – no visible bandage – and the pain lessened a little as he lay back on the sofa.
The fire had burned out long before. They’d slept on couches and chairs. In a house full of people, he felt as though he were all alone.
He looked down at his arms. The wounds from the day before had swollen, oozing blood and pus. His fingers twitched, sending tremors through his muscles and joints. He’d seen worse injuries before, but not many.
As far as he could tell, the cuts hadn’t become infected; he’d been too careful for that. Yet the feeling of sickness remained.
Something was wrong. He looked towards the fireplace, thinking that perhaps he should make a dash for the toilet, but a sudden wave of dizziness made him close his eyes instead. He waited for vertigo to pass, and when the room steadied itself he stood up slowly.
His first thought was that something must have poisoned the water he’d drunk. Perhaps the locals used some old medicine or witchcraft that would cause him harm. Or maybe he’d simply drunk too much whisky during the evening’s celebrations. He hadn’t known the local brew well enough to judge how strong it was. Either way, he wouldn’t find out unless he tested it on his own skin.
That left only one option. He needed to leave. Now.
His legs were weak, and walking wasn’t going to be an easy task. So he sat back down on the sofa and pulled out his phone. He dialed the number, but even as he did so, he knew the call was futile.
No one was likely to answer.
He hung up and switched on his data signal. Then he opened the app that he had downloaded earlier. With trembling fingers, he punched in the first letter of the name, hoping there might be a clue in this morgue file somewhere. After three failed attempts, the search finally yielded a result.
It led him to another app – one called Dead Man Walking – which was exactly what he needed. It allowed him to track the location of any given victim of crime using the GPS chip that police sometimes inserted inside bodies.
When he entered the dead man’s information, Dead Man Walking sent a warning that a possible lead had been found in the town of Dunkeld: a house that belonged to Mrs. Anne Smith, widow of a William Smith, who had died four years ago.
Dunkeld is home to the world-renowned Blair Drummond Safari Park and the ancient ruins of Castle Stalker, a castle that served as the seat of the Clan chief until just a century ago.
Dunkeld had been home to several clans before Scotland lost its independence – before it became part of Britain once more. Today, though, it belonged to the MacDougal family – a powerful clan who ruled most of eastern Northumberland and Yorkshire.
The MacDougal clan still owned large tracts of land near Edinburgh, Newcastle, and Berwick-upon-Tweed, but they had also inherited the ancient titles and estates of the Scottish lords who had died without heirs. The most recent heir to die had been John MacDougal, whose title and lands passed to his younger brother, Thomas.
There was something vaguely familiar about all this. But where could he possibly have come across it?
Thomas had never mentioned any of this. Not to him.
Or had he?
He remembered Thomas’s words. “You’ll find it strange, Mr. McDonagh.”
But surely Thomas would know better than to tell a stranger about a murder.
Unless he didn’t. And if he didn’t…
***
He closed his phone with a sigh, wondering whether he should have asked someone else to stay behind and look after Mrs. MacLeod. But now seemed like a good time to try and get away. There was nothing stopping him from leaving at any point in the day, except perhaps Mrs. MacLeod herself.
As he walked down the stairs, the sound of voices floated through the doorway. At least two men, judging by their accents.
One of them spoke English – or something akin to it. He couldn’t quite place his accent. As soon as he saw Thomas sitting beside the woman, he knew why. It was the same man who’d spoken to him outside the gatehouse.
And yet, he’d been here before, hadn’t he? On one of those mornings, when the wind had howled through the streets and cold rain had fallen from dark, angry clouds. He remembered how the mist had lingered in every shadow, hiding everything beyond a few yards.
He’d been so lost then – confused and alone. Maybe it was his imagination. After all, he hadn’t spent much time with any of these people.
It was hard to remember how different things were when he was living on the street, how much easier it would have been to give in to despair. To go back to that moment when everything fell apart when he first met Thomas.
Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.
He looked up, trying to see who was speaking. His heart sank when he realized that none of the voices belonged to any of the staff working at the zoo. That meant he had no choice but to follow and listen to them for as long as they stayed.
He stepped outside, looking around for the van parked nearby. In case his suspicions proved right. If so, he would need to take it. They’d probably want to return it later in the morning, so they could transport the animals elsewhere.
The van wasn’t there, but he heard a vehicle approaching from the other end of the street. A Land Rover Defender that had a black box mounted to the dashboard and a pair of cameras attached to either side of the front grille.
As it drew closer, it grew larger and louder, making the hairs on his neck stand up. He turned towards Mrs. MacLeod, expecting her to say something about it. Instead, she continued chatting happily with Thomas. Perhaps there was little enough concern that he might be overheard.
“…so what did I miss?” asked Thomas, when the Land Rover came to a halt. The door opened and a couple got out. “Ahh,” said the man when he saw Thomas. “So you’re the young chap with the accent. We’ve seen your photos.”
“I don’t know anything,” replied McDonagh.
The man looked at him, puzzled. “Well…if that’s true, we might not have much to talk about anyway.”
Thomas stood up and reached for another man’s hand. “This is my assistant.” He turned to McDonagh and smiled, offering his hand. “My name’s Richard. This is John.” He shook McDonagh’s hand.
Richard nodded to McDonagh. “I’m pleased to meet you. We haven’t talked to many people who could speak with an accent as fine as yours. Most tend to be a bit too thick with it.”
A few people laughed. One of them, a tall woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and a wide smile, approached and introduced herself. She also offered her hand.
McDonagh looked at them both curiously. Neither of them was wearing badges showing their names. Or did they have some inside knowledge that would explain all this? Did they know he was here and they were trying to catch him off guard?
He decided not to press his luck and instead introduced himself.
After several minutes of pleasantries, Mrs. MacLeod left to make tea and bring everyone coffee. When she returned, the conversation had moved on to a new topic. Someone was saying that a certain animal was being neglected by its keeper.
“…it’s just a bad habit,” the woman continued. Her eyes darted between me and Mr. McDonagh. “If there was anyone else available to help him, it wouldn’t happen.”
Mr. McDonagh felt the urge to say something, but he didn’t. There was no point until Mrs. MacLeod brought up the elephant enclosure at last.
“We’ll need to move them somewhere safe,” said Mrs. MacLeod. “There’s a big storm coming – a hurricane in fact.”
She looked at him, searching his face for a reaction. “Are you worried about storms, Doctor?”
He shook his head, smiling. “No. Not really.”
Mrs. MacLeod nodded and looked across the room at the woman with shoulder-length blonde hair. “You should be careful, Jane. You’re talking about moving three hundred tonnes of an elephant.”
When she glanced across, the woman gave a small laugh. “Three hundred kilos,” she corrected. “And it can do nothing to us – elephants are the least dangerous of our inhabitants.”
***
They spent the next half hour going through the zoo, discussing every animal and the potential hazards or risks each might pose if someone tried to move them. McDonagh listened intently, though he knew he shouldn’t let himself get drawn into these conversations.
It only took one slip for him to reveal the location of his home, after all. But even as he made up his mind, Mrs. MacLeod steered the discussion towards his research, asking him to talk about the work he’d done since starting at the zoo a few years ago.
He spoke briefly about the elephant project and how he’d developed an understanding of their biology, particularly regarding reproduction. When he mentioned that the first baby elephant born in captivity had been conceived by artificial insemination in his lab, most people looked impressed.
“That sounds exciting,” said Jane. “Can you tell us more about it?”
McDonagh nodded, then began explaining that there was little data on the female side of the reproductive process. The males’ hormones had always been measured and mapped. And while scientists understood that the females went into heat and could become pregnant during their fertile periods, they were still ignorant of a great deal.
They knew little about the fertilization process. Or why elephants sometimes aborted their pregnancies early. Or the role played by the sperm in the fertilization process. That was just a start.
As he told his story, he became engrossed and forgot about Mrs. MacLeod’s earlier request that he keep quiet. His explanation drew interest and a few of them asked questions. One of those people was the man from before who seemed interested in McDonagh’s work, so maybe they weren’t all after me.
The End