Title: The Tower: Chapter Three, Part One
Chapter Three, Part One
The first morgue on their list was not far from the magnificent Grossmünster Cathedral, a holy place dating from the time of Charlemagne. Its grounds had served as a burial place for over eight centuries, so perhaps it was no wonder that a morgue had found its way into the church’s shadow. Those in the community who were better off would surely prefer to bury their dead in the church graveyard, and a conveniently placed morgue was essential for keeping a body fresh before burial, even in a cool locale like Zürich. It was nothing like the places Anton had worked in London, with stained bricks and wet slabs and bodies piling up in the back while he cast spell after spell, confirming cause of death and, in some cases, illuminating it.
It had been necessary, honorable work, but the stink of the nearby Thames, rotting bodies and ever-burning crematoriums had seeped into his clothing, his hair, and even his skin by the end of a day. Even the harshest soaps could not entirely scrub him clean, not in one washing, and no matter how his mother had tried, essence of lavender and extract of lemon were no match for particles of immolated fat. Anton had not been in a position to refuse to do such work, but when the chance at getting his Master’s had come along, he had seized it with both hands.
The morgue they entered now was a crisp, clean place, its front whitewashed and very visible even in the low light. An elderly man carrying a taper met them at the door. “You’re the investigators here to view the young gentlemen, I take it?” he asked calmly.
“Indeed.” Camille held out a hand and the two men shook. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us at this early hour. This is my colleague, Herr Vogt.”
“Herr Vogt.” The old man smiled thinly. “And you the emperor’s lumière. Quite the hardy knot of justice looking into these deaths.” His smile vanished. “These poor lads should have been buried two days ago, Monsieur Lumière. It is not seemly to make the dead wait for their final resting place with the Lord.”
“It would be even less seemly for them to go to their eternal rest with their murders unresolved,” Camille rejoined. “They cannot speak for themselves now, so allow my colleague and I to discover what we may of them. If we can prevent this tragedy from befalling other talented young men, I will consider the sacrifice of their wait well worth it.”
The man grumbled a little, but turned aside and waved them through. “They are in the back, next to Frau Fischer. Go straight down the hall, it is the final door, and unlocked. No one has been inside since yesterday, when we brought the good woman in. Her husband is also anxiously awaiting the release of his dear wife’s body, so I implore you—make haste.”
“You have followed protocol most precisely, my thanks.” Camille bowed slightly, and the man handed over the taper with an incline of his own head. “We shall be gone before the next hour is struck.”
“I shall hope for it, Monsieur.” He locked the front door behind them, then disappeared upstairs. Camille didn’t bother to watch him go, just strode down the hall so fast Anton was hard-pressed to keep up at first.
“Do you want to go in by yourself first?” Camille asked, stopping in front of the door. “I remember that being quite important on the train.”
Anton shook his head. “The bodies have already been taken from their original resting places. I won’t get much out of their surroundings at this point. We’ll be lucky to get five seconds of miasma here, and it likely won’t be repeatable for long, so do join me.”
“Very well.” Still, he hung back and let Anton lead now, which was…heartening. He pushed the door open and stepped into the chill of the morgue.
However this proprietor was keeping the place cold, he was doing an excellent job of it. Anton could see his own breath in the faint light, and he rubbed his hands together briefly before approaching the first slab. He eased back the linen covering the man’s face and took in the white collar around his ruined neck. “The priest.”
“Father Jeremiah Brooks,” Camille confirmed. “A strange target, even for someone going after magically-talented Englishmen. He had enough ability to rank as a full priest, but Father Brooks was no true thaumaturge. The most interesting thing about him was his wanderlust.”
“Perhaps there will be something more to glean upon seeing his death miasma.” Anton took a step back and opened his holdall. “Please position yourself against the wall while I make the spell.”
“Of course.” Camille stepped back and then there was just Anton and the work he knew like the back of his hand. He pulled out a small silver bowl, set it on the floor, then inscribed a circle of symbols around it in chalk. From those, he drew a straight line over to the slab, ending it just shy of Father Brook’s head. He knelt again, pulled out the mixture of herbs and metals that went hand in hand with conjuring a miasma, and set the sachet inside the bowl.
He took out a match and a paper fan, closed his eyes and drew in his power along with his breath, then spoke the triggering spell. The match lit, and he lowered it to the herbs, which blazed far brighter than such a little package should have. The fire died just as quickly, and Anton used the fan to waft the smoke toward the body, allowing nothing to disturb his focus and concentration. The chalk acted like an updraft, drawing the smoke to the slab. It collected over the body, then stilled. Anton held his breath. Perhaps it had been too long, perhaps he was too late…
Suddenly the smoke coalesced into the wavering form of a standing man. His head snapped back as though he’d been struck, and he fell to his knees. His hands rose in front of him, and a moment later, a gush of smoke erupted from his hazy throat. The man fell onto his side, the life flowing out of him, and a moment later, the scene reset.
Anton let it play twice more before Camille finally said, “Enough.” He erased the primary glyph holding the spell together, and the smoke began to dissipate. Camille stepped up to his side, his expression intent. “Interesting.”
“Because he was not bound. His hands were free right up to the end. It makes me think he either knew his attacker, or was seeing them in a professional capacity before they went for him. Father Brooks was found in his rooms, but he was known to have visitors on occasion.”
“Professional capacity.” Anton finally caught up. “You mean, he was acting as someone’s priest? A confessor, perhaps?”
“Perhaps. Or just a friendly ear in a foreign city. Curious.” Camille tapped his lips with one forefinger. “Most curious. And he didn’t even attempt to defend himself, simply made the sign of the cross as he died. Why he wouldn’t cry out…”
“Maybe he wanted to die with dignity.”
“There is little dignity to be had in death, especially a violent one,” Camille said. “You should remember that much from the train.” Anton shuddered and looked away. No one who had died on that train had died well, that was certain. “But let us move on. Master Frederick Hollyoak awaits.” He gestured to the next slab.
Anton cleaned up his first spell with steady hands, despite how unnerved he felt by the scene, and resettled in front of the other body. Camille pulled back the shroud as Anton began his preparations. His expression went from calm to stone-cold in an instant. “Ah.”
Anton refocused on him. “Ah?”
“Do the spell, but I have a feeling I already know what you’re going to find.” Camille replaced the cloth gently, and waved Anton back down when he made to stand up. “No, don’t look. It won’t make any difference if you see his state, and you don’t need the distraction.”
“I’ve worked with literally hundreds of corpses before,” Anton protested. “I won’t be frightened by what I see.”
“You won’t be improved by it either. Please.” There was a note of something almost imploring in Camille’s voice, and hearing it made Anton shiver. “Don’t look. Just cast the spell.”
“I…very well.” Anton went through the motions again, preparing the spell, speaking the incantation to light the match, and finally moving the smoke where it needed to go. It huddled over the body, which didn’t seem to react. No, wait—it had shifted, so that the journeyman thaumaturge was on his belly now instead of his back. He seemed to be barely breathing, awful, hitched things that caught in his lungs. An invisible hand lifted his head up, and Anton had just a second to see the way smoke seemed to ooze from every plane of the man’s face before his throat was cut, blood gushing. The scene reset.
“Is he…was he…”
“Tortured,” Camille confirmed. “Yes. I had been told, of course, but it’s different to see the evidence for myself. He was tortured quite brutally before his murderer finally killed him.”
“But for what?” Anton murmured, feeling sick to his stomach. He’d seen the afterimages of so many violent deaths, but rarely had they ever been more than that. Acts of passion, acts of coldhearted deliberation, yes, but not acts of drawn-out suffering.
“That is what we must discover.” Camille rested his hand on Anton’s shoulder for a moment. “Can you continue?”
“Of course.” Anton shook his head a little. “Of course I can. I was just surprised.”
“Good. The other morgue is a bit of a walk, and it’s too early yet for a coach.”
“I won’t let you down.”
Anton could hear the smile in the other man’s voice. “You never have. I don’t doubt that you never shall.”