As In the Best It Is -- Ch. 2 (Highlander historical fic)
Here's chapter two of the historical-serial-killer-fic.
Chapter Two: In Which I Am Awakened In A Mildly Rude Fashion
"Who owns these scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.
-Ted Hughes, Examination at the Womb Door
New Year's Eve -- 10:42 a.m.
The light coming through the curtains is still early-morning gray, evidence of the snow still falling outside rather than of the hour, as it is very near eleven. One of the most enjoyable things about setting my own schedule is being able to wake whenever I choose - though I'm usually up and breakfasting by nine and in the office by ten or so. Laziness is a vice I can ill afford. I've seen it lead to boredom in other Immortals -- and for us, boredom can easily become deadly.
I am uncertain as to what woke me until I hear it again: a soft tap on the door. It can only be Josiah and, as waking me up is no part of his duties and he knows I prefer to sleep until I am ready to rise, something must have happened; that, or I have company that refuses to consider 'he's asleep' an acceptable response..
It takes only a few seconds to push aside the blankets and slide into my dressing gown and slippers. Josiah is waiting at the door, his face set in the expressionless mask that denotes disapproval
"Major Hill's here, Mr. Matthew. I told him you was sleeping, but he told me to wake you up. He's in the small parlour."
I'm willing to wager that the Major's actual words were a deal less polite. He disapproves of my habit of sleeping in, and has told me so on numerous occasions over the three years we've lived next door to one another.
"I'll be down in a moment, Josiah. Please, offer the Major some coffee or some tea in the meantime."
"Yes, sir," he says, and heads off to placate my guest. I return to my room and throw some clothes on, reluctantly leaving my dressing-gown on the bed before following Josiah downstairs.
The Major is indeed in the small parlour. There's a fire burning on the hearth, and from the smell wafting from the pot on the sideboard, he's accepted coffee rather than tea. Josiah's left a second cup on the tray, and after the requisite greetings are exchanged I cross the room to pour for myself, adding cream and sugar before returning my attention to my visitor.
"How is Mrs. Hill this morning? And Walter?"
"Morning? It's almost noon," the Major points out accusingly, then relents. "They're well. Walter's badly shaken, of course, but he's talking, and grieving, which is the important thing. Mrs. Hill sends her thanks, and told me to ask you to dinner on New Year's Day."
"I'd be honoured," I tell him, and mean it, though the invitation is expected. I've spent every holiday for the past year and the half with the Hills, whose own son would have been a year younger than is the man I'm supposed to be, if he hadn't died of pneumonia at sixteen. It was odd at first, being treated with parental concern by a man and woman a mere fraction of my age -- but in a way, mortals get older than we ever do. It's been a few centuries since I've been adopted like this, and I'd forgotten how pleasant it can be to have family. Mrs. Hill is also a fantastic cook, so I benefit from the relationship in more ways than one.
"I'll tell her you said so." The Major blows heavily into his mustaches. "That damn fool Grooms Lee arrested Lem Brooks this morning."
"Mollie's former suitor?" It's like the man to arrest the first suspect he comes across. I haven't been officially involved in law enforcement since Henry VII appointed me sheriff of Lincolnshire -- that sort of position used to hold a good deal more social prestige than it does at present, especially in this locale -- but I remember enough to know that grabbing a suspect up simply because he was mentioned by a witness is no way to go about investigating a murder.
"That's the one. And it's no use telling Lee that the boy doesn't have a violent bone in his body. When Mollie picked Walter, he wished her every happiness in the world, and we haven't seen him since, save to run into him around town upon occasion. He certainly wasn't hanging around Mollie, or mooning after her; she'd have noticed, and she'd have said something to me."
"You're sure of that?"
"Certain. Why would he come back all these years later for a revenge in which he has never for a moment seemed interested?"
"It doesn't make much sense," I admit. "Still, I'm not sure what you expect me to do about it." That he expects me to do something is clear from his presence in my parlour.
"You're a lawyer," he says blankly. I love the Major dearly, but with the exception of his own profession of engineering, he is deeply ignorant about the workings of the world.
"About all I can do, sir, is to speak for him if the matter comes to a trial, and there's no way to know at this juncture whether it will or not. The coroner's jury still has to be convened, and they'll decide whether there's enough evidence against him to proceed further."
"And when will that occur?" he asks, blowing into his mustaches again.
"Within the next few days, at the very latest," I assure him. It does nothing to relieve the strain on his face.
"I don't need to tell you that this has upset my entire household. Mrs. Hill does her best to put a good face on things, but I believe she's terrified that the bastard might come back." His own fears of course remain unspoken, but I can see them in the shadows under his eyes; can see the unconscious stiffening for a fight in the tense line of his shoulders. He has to know that he would stand no chance against a man with the strength to do what was done to Mollie, but if the murderer does return, that knowledge will do nothing to stop him from trying anyway. The thought is a bittersweet reminder of the lost Cause upon which the Major spent his youth and health and which I spent half a decade trying my damnedest to preserve even though I knew it for soiled beyond repair. We knew before the end that we were beaten, but it did not stop us from fighting. If Bobby Lee had allowed it, we would have gone on fighting even after Appomattox. That will to battle lives in the Major's bones, and it will not surrender to such a paltry enemy as age.
The will to fight, however, does not translate into an eagerness for violence or for defeat. I myself have little fear that Mollie's killer will return to wreak further violence upon the Major's household. Instinct tells me that he achieved his goals last night and will not be back. Nevertheless, I am unwilling to chance being wrong, given what a mistake on my part will mean for the Major and Mrs. Hill.
"Would you perhaps allow me to escort you and Mrs. Hill to the New Year's Eve parties this evening?" I keep my tone as casual as possible, trying to avoid offending the Major's not-inconsiderable pride. "If you would also do me the courtesy of loaning me your guest bedroom for the night, I can offer Mrs. Hill an extra set of hands with which to prepare dinner on New Year's Day."
The Major lifts one bushy white eyebrow, but the twitch of his mustaches is the one that signals amusement and willingness to conspire. "And a younger set of ears and pair of shoulders, should our intruder decide to return?"
"As a guest in your home, sir, I would of course do my utmost to repel any unwelcome visitor, were you to ask it of me."
"Consider it asked," he says gruffly. "We'll be glad to have you tonight, McCormick. Will you bring your boy?"
"I think I'll leave him here. I don't wish to leave my housekeeper unprotected." The Major's nod is approving, and his blue eyes are gleaming with renewed confidence. He drains his coffee cup and sets it down on the table beside his chair.
"Until this evening, then." He sounds satisfied. "Shall we say five o'clock?"
With the details of the evening arranged to both of our satisfaction, he departs, leaving me to think longingly of my abandoned bed. Returning to the parlour to put down my now-empty coffee cup, I find Josiah occupied in clearing away the tray. He looks up at my entrance.
"Do you want breakfast, Mr. Matthew?" I rarely do, and today is no exception.
"No; I'm going down to the office for a few hours." I haven't practiced any criminal law in this particular incarnation, and need to refresh my memory on certain points. "I should be back around three; I'll be accompanying the Major and Mrs. Hill this evening, and staying the night there as well. You may have the evening to yourself, but I would prefer it if you would return home soon after midnight; I don't want Annie alone in the house for any significant amount of time."
Clearly he understands my drift; he nods gravely and returns to his clearing-up. I am almost out the door when a thought occurs to me, and I turn back.
"Josiah. What do you think of Lem Brooks?" His hands still over the tray for a moment, then resume their work with their usual smooth assurance.
"I don't think he done it, Mr. Matthew." He picks up the tray and turns towards me before elaborating. "Lem ain't had it easy, and he ain't exactly bright, but he's a gentle soul. That's why Mr. Townsend hired him for his stables; he's good with high-strung horses." Josiah shrugs, setting the cups to rattling gently on the tray in his hands. "There ain't no murder in him."
Upstairs in the bedroom, I turn Josiah's words over in my mind. His last comment was very close to one made by Major Hill and, despite the vast differences between the two of them, both are astute judges of character. That doesn't necessarily make them right. Most -- I would almost go so far as to say all -- men have murder in them, if they're pressed hard enough in the right -- or wrong -- ways; have it in them to kill in a moment of fury or despair. This murder, though... It's the rare man who has this kind of murder in him. Despite the gore, despite the rape, there is something oddly impersonal about this particular crime that sets the hairs on the back of my neck to standing on end; something about the way she was left, like a child's abandoned toy.
Nine times out of ten, so violent a murder as Mollie's was is committed by one of the victim's nearest and dearest; is deep love turned to a hatred so overwhelming as to find resolution only in the destruction of the one who caused it. Such murderers are easy to catch; the crime is committed with little forethought, and with little thought of escaping afterwards. That tenth time...well. There are different breeds of killer, and that one is the most dangerous: is the least human and the most difficult to catch, if only because the normal human mind can only rarely comprehend his motivations or predict his behaviour. He kills because he likes it; there is no motive beyond the murder itself, committed and relished by a monster whose human guise goes only skin deep.
'By your works shall ye know them'; or so says the Good Book, and I've spent long enough hunting after murderers that, at least where this particular sort of murder is concerned, the words are true. Whoever it was that tore Mollie's life from her last night did so with relish: with the sort of enjoyment that another man might reserve for a fine meal or a brilliant piece of music -- and it might well have been Lem Brooks, despite both Josiah and the Major's doubts. Men who kill for pleasure are almost never the sort to arouse suspicion in the hearts of their fellows. My own doubts have less to do with Lem Brooks than they do with Grooms Lee: having myself brought more than one of these human monsters to bay, I have difficulties accepting that the Marshal has managed to stumble so quickly upon his quarry. He has never struck me as being a particularly lucky man.
A quick glance at my attire in the bedroom mirror shows my appearance to be satisfactory, though I shall have to change again before meeting the Major and Mrs. Hill. A quick detour to my study to pick up the notes I was working on last night is all that stands between me and the street, though once I am outside I must confess that I consider returning inside with remarkable celerity. It is no longer snowing, and the temperature has dropped accordingly; the sky is grey overhead and the wind whipping through the streets of the city is bitterly cold. I could almost wish that my office were further from my residence, in order to give myself an excuse to resort to the carriage stabled behind the house. Instead I pull my coat more tightly around myself and speed up my steps. It was much colder in the winter of 1864, and I was much less warmly dressed.
My office, sadly, is not much warmer than the streets outside, though the absence of wind is a blessing. My secretary has returned to his family in Dallas until after the New Year, and as I build the fire I am wishing him back earlier than expected. It is amazing how quickly one becomes accustomed to the comforts of life -- almost as quickly as one becomes accustomed to doing without them, as a matter of fact. Still, it is not long before the room begins to warm, and I am able to take off my coat and hang it from the rack behind my desk before settling in for the afternoon.
***
Notes: Thank you to lferion and to kesomon for beta services. You guys are the best, and any remaining errors are due entirely to my own stubbornness and/or foolishness.
As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.
Chapter Two: In Which I Am Awakened In A Mildly Rude Fashion
"Who owns these scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.
-Ted Hughes, Examination at the Womb Door
New Year's Eve -- 10:42 a.m.
The light coming through the curtains is still early-morning gray, evidence of the snow still falling outside rather than of the hour, as it is very near eleven. One of the most enjoyable things about setting my own schedule is being able to wake whenever I choose - though I'm usually up and breakfasting by nine and in the office by ten or so. Laziness is a vice I can ill afford. I've seen it lead to boredom in other Immortals -- and for us, boredom can easily become deadly.
I am uncertain as to what woke me until I hear it again: a soft tap on the door. It can only be Josiah and, as waking me up is no part of his duties and he knows I prefer to sleep until I am ready to rise, something must have happened; that, or I have company that refuses to consider 'he's asleep' an acceptable response..
It takes only a few seconds to push aside the blankets and slide into my dressing gown and slippers. Josiah is waiting at the door, his face set in the expressionless mask that denotes disapproval
"Major Hill's here, Mr. Matthew. I told him you was sleeping, but he told me to wake you up. He's in the small parlour."
I'm willing to wager that the Major's actual words were a deal less polite. He disapproves of my habit of sleeping in, and has told me so on numerous occasions over the three years we've lived next door to one another.
"I'll be down in a moment, Josiah. Please, offer the Major some coffee or some tea in the meantime."
"Yes, sir," he says, and heads off to placate my guest. I return to my room and throw some clothes on, reluctantly leaving my dressing-gown on the bed before following Josiah downstairs.
The Major is indeed in the small parlour. There's a fire burning on the hearth, and from the smell wafting from the pot on the sideboard, he's accepted coffee rather than tea. Josiah's left a second cup on the tray, and after the requisite greetings are exchanged I cross the room to pour for myself, adding cream and sugar before returning my attention to my visitor.
"How is Mrs. Hill this morning? And Walter?"
"Morning? It's almost noon," the Major points out accusingly, then relents. "They're well. Walter's badly shaken, of course, but he's talking, and grieving, which is the important thing. Mrs. Hill sends her thanks, and told me to ask you to dinner on New Year's Day."
"I'd be honoured," I tell him, and mean it, though the invitation is expected. I've spent every holiday for the past year and the half with the Hills, whose own son would have been a year younger than is the man I'm supposed to be, if he hadn't died of pneumonia at sixteen. It was odd at first, being treated with parental concern by a man and woman a mere fraction of my age -- but in a way, mortals get older than we ever do. It's been a few centuries since I've been adopted like this, and I'd forgotten how pleasant it can be to have family. Mrs. Hill is also a fantastic cook, so I benefit from the relationship in more ways than one.
"I'll tell her you said so." The Major blows heavily into his mustaches. "That damn fool Grooms Lee arrested Lem Brooks this morning."
"Mollie's former suitor?" It's like the man to arrest the first suspect he comes across. I haven't been officially involved in law enforcement since Henry VII appointed me sheriff of Lincolnshire -- that sort of position used to hold a good deal more social prestige than it does at present, especially in this locale -- but I remember enough to know that grabbing a suspect up simply because he was mentioned by a witness is no way to go about investigating a murder.
"That's the one. And it's no use telling Lee that the boy doesn't have a violent bone in his body. When Mollie picked Walter, he wished her every happiness in the world, and we haven't seen him since, save to run into him around town upon occasion. He certainly wasn't hanging around Mollie, or mooning after her; she'd have noticed, and she'd have said something to me."
"You're sure of that?"
"Certain. Why would he come back all these years later for a revenge in which he has never for a moment seemed interested?"
"It doesn't make much sense," I admit. "Still, I'm not sure what you expect me to do about it." That he expects me to do something is clear from his presence in my parlour.
"You're a lawyer," he says blankly. I love the Major dearly, but with the exception of his own profession of engineering, he is deeply ignorant about the workings of the world.
"About all I can do, sir, is to speak for him if the matter comes to a trial, and there's no way to know at this juncture whether it will or not. The coroner's jury still has to be convened, and they'll decide whether there's enough evidence against him to proceed further."
"And when will that occur?" he asks, blowing into his mustaches again.
"Within the next few days, at the very latest," I assure him. It does nothing to relieve the strain on his face.
"I don't need to tell you that this has upset my entire household. Mrs. Hill does her best to put a good face on things, but I believe she's terrified that the bastard might come back." His own fears of course remain unspoken, but I can see them in the shadows under his eyes; can see the unconscious stiffening for a fight in the tense line of his shoulders. He has to know that he would stand no chance against a man with the strength to do what was done to Mollie, but if the murderer does return, that knowledge will do nothing to stop him from trying anyway. The thought is a bittersweet reminder of the lost Cause upon which the Major spent his youth and health and which I spent half a decade trying my damnedest to preserve even though I knew it for soiled beyond repair. We knew before the end that we were beaten, but it did not stop us from fighting. If Bobby Lee had allowed it, we would have gone on fighting even after Appomattox. That will to battle lives in the Major's bones, and it will not surrender to such a paltry enemy as age.
The will to fight, however, does not translate into an eagerness for violence or for defeat. I myself have little fear that Mollie's killer will return to wreak further violence upon the Major's household. Instinct tells me that he achieved his goals last night and will not be back. Nevertheless, I am unwilling to chance being wrong, given what a mistake on my part will mean for the Major and Mrs. Hill.
"Would you perhaps allow me to escort you and Mrs. Hill to the New Year's Eve parties this evening?" I keep my tone as casual as possible, trying to avoid offending the Major's not-inconsiderable pride. "If you would also do me the courtesy of loaning me your guest bedroom for the night, I can offer Mrs. Hill an extra set of hands with which to prepare dinner on New Year's Day."
The Major lifts one bushy white eyebrow, but the twitch of his mustaches is the one that signals amusement and willingness to conspire. "And a younger set of ears and pair of shoulders, should our intruder decide to return?"
"As a guest in your home, sir, I would of course do my utmost to repel any unwelcome visitor, were you to ask it of me."
"Consider it asked," he says gruffly. "We'll be glad to have you tonight, McCormick. Will you bring your boy?"
"I think I'll leave him here. I don't wish to leave my housekeeper unprotected." The Major's nod is approving, and his blue eyes are gleaming with renewed confidence. He drains his coffee cup and sets it down on the table beside his chair.
"Until this evening, then." He sounds satisfied. "Shall we say five o'clock?"
With the details of the evening arranged to both of our satisfaction, he departs, leaving me to think longingly of my abandoned bed. Returning to the parlour to put down my now-empty coffee cup, I find Josiah occupied in clearing away the tray. He looks up at my entrance.
"Do you want breakfast, Mr. Matthew?" I rarely do, and today is no exception.
"No; I'm going down to the office for a few hours." I haven't practiced any criminal law in this particular incarnation, and need to refresh my memory on certain points. "I should be back around three; I'll be accompanying the Major and Mrs. Hill this evening, and staying the night there as well. You may have the evening to yourself, but I would prefer it if you would return home soon after midnight; I don't want Annie alone in the house for any significant amount of time."
Clearly he understands my drift; he nods gravely and returns to his clearing-up. I am almost out the door when a thought occurs to me, and I turn back.
"Josiah. What do you think of Lem Brooks?" His hands still over the tray for a moment, then resume their work with their usual smooth assurance.
"I don't think he done it, Mr. Matthew." He picks up the tray and turns towards me before elaborating. "Lem ain't had it easy, and he ain't exactly bright, but he's a gentle soul. That's why Mr. Townsend hired him for his stables; he's good with high-strung horses." Josiah shrugs, setting the cups to rattling gently on the tray in his hands. "There ain't no murder in him."
Upstairs in the bedroom, I turn Josiah's words over in my mind. His last comment was very close to one made by Major Hill and, despite the vast differences between the two of them, both are astute judges of character. That doesn't necessarily make them right. Most -- I would almost go so far as to say all -- men have murder in them, if they're pressed hard enough in the right -- or wrong -- ways; have it in them to kill in a moment of fury or despair. This murder, though... It's the rare man who has this kind of murder in him. Despite the gore, despite the rape, there is something oddly impersonal about this particular crime that sets the hairs on the back of my neck to standing on end; something about the way she was left, like a child's abandoned toy.
Nine times out of ten, so violent a murder as Mollie's was is committed by one of the victim's nearest and dearest; is deep love turned to a hatred so overwhelming as to find resolution only in the destruction of the one who caused it. Such murderers are easy to catch; the crime is committed with little forethought, and with little thought of escaping afterwards. That tenth time...well. There are different breeds of killer, and that one is the most dangerous: is the least human and the most difficult to catch, if only because the normal human mind can only rarely comprehend his motivations or predict his behaviour. He kills because he likes it; there is no motive beyond the murder itself, committed and relished by a monster whose human guise goes only skin deep.
'By your works shall ye know them'; or so says the Good Book, and I've spent long enough hunting after murderers that, at least where this particular sort of murder is concerned, the words are true. Whoever it was that tore Mollie's life from her last night did so with relish: with the sort of enjoyment that another man might reserve for a fine meal or a brilliant piece of music -- and it might well have been Lem Brooks, despite both Josiah and the Major's doubts. Men who kill for pleasure are almost never the sort to arouse suspicion in the hearts of their fellows. My own doubts have less to do with Lem Brooks than they do with Grooms Lee: having myself brought more than one of these human monsters to bay, I have difficulties accepting that the Marshal has managed to stumble so quickly upon his quarry. He has never struck me as being a particularly lucky man.
A quick glance at my attire in the bedroom mirror shows my appearance to be satisfactory, though I shall have to change again before meeting the Major and Mrs. Hill. A quick detour to my study to pick up the notes I was working on last night is all that stands between me and the street, though once I am outside I must confess that I consider returning inside with remarkable celerity. It is no longer snowing, and the temperature has dropped accordingly; the sky is grey overhead and the wind whipping through the streets of the city is bitterly cold. I could almost wish that my office were further from my residence, in order to give myself an excuse to resort to the carriage stabled behind the house. Instead I pull my coat more tightly around myself and speed up my steps. It was much colder in the winter of 1864, and I was much less warmly dressed.
My office, sadly, is not much warmer than the streets outside, though the absence of wind is a blessing. My secretary has returned to his family in Dallas until after the New Year, and as I build the fire I am wishing him back earlier than expected. It is amazing how quickly one becomes accustomed to the comforts of life -- almost as quickly as one becomes accustomed to doing without them, as a matter of fact. Still, it is not long before the room begins to warm, and I am able to take off my coat and hang it from the rack behind my desk before settling in for the afternoon.
***
Notes: Thank you to lferion and to kesomon for beta services. You guys are the best, and any remaining errors are due entirely to my own stubbornness and/or foolishness.
As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.