Chapter 7: Canis Aureus Lupaster

Dear Liziwe

I have solved that case which called me away in such a hasty manner. It was, in the end, divinely simple; but that is not why I write you now. No, now I write on matters most adroit at turning the edge of boredom, that foul, double-headed serpent. It is decided: let us test your mettle. I throw at your feet a case: not a demanding one, but a case all the same. I will endeavour to the utmost not to influence your verdict, and will supply you with ample details, though the challenge truly lies in reading a scene in its natural state; but alas, it is not to be. You are not here, and we must make do, and hope for the best. Nevertheless, I beg of you to send a return with your thoughts, whatever they might be. Think of it, if you will, as an exercise in mental dexterity. The life of the Spinster of Tyoborha could hardly be a challenging one; though I grant that you do have a thirst for knowledge which, I must admit, rivals my own- but only in certain respects. It is hardly of consequence. I urge you now, conjure this up in that rigid head that rests upon your shoulders:

A body lies in a fetal position on the cobblestones of an alley, exactly two and a half metres across. On either side rises a shoddy tenement building; the variety that is barely held together by propped stones, though given the conditions you undoubtedly will have to depend upon your imagination, cooped up in the country as you are. The air reeks of fish: we are near the docks. The building on the right hand side features a small window, to which it has been claimed our body has tumbled out of. The victim lived in this flat with his wife and children. He was not a popular man by any means, and his family allegedly exhibited frequent signs of maltreatment. He owed debts to many of his neighbours, and was a known drunkard. Beneath the victim, and indeed, crunched along the totality of the alley, lies a series of broken bottles.

Now we come to the meat of it: there is evidence of trauma at the back of our victim’s head. Professor Barland has confirmed that the (quite repugnant) odour that lingers by his mouth is that of alcohol, coupled with the vomit that has noticeably been wiped away from the lower lip. There are numerous wounds to the front of the torso- nine altogether. Each is between two to five centimetres, and all are of different depths. The largest is on the lower left side of the abdomen. The blood is congealed; there was but a negligible amount of it coating the ground. There is no evidence of broken bones, though the professor informs me there may be fractures present in the limbs.

Constable Williams has concluded from this evidence that the man in question was incapacitated by drink, tripped, and in doing so, propelled himself out of the open window, whereupon he plunged into the alley where the glass from the bottles punctured his body. And there he was to be found dead the next morning.

Well then, Miss Matiwane; What do you make of it? Murder most foul, or simply the upshot of living as drunkard and thief?

Reply speedily; the criminal classes are remarkably dull at the moment, and I have nothing but this letter, and possibly other unmentionables, to inhabit my mind. I must, I fear, light my pipe, and wait impatiently for your reply. So I beg of you, reply quickly, if convenient.

E.S.

P.S. if inconvenient, send quickly all the same.

Liziwe smiled to herself as she refolded the letter, letting it rest against the hard wood of the desk. She pressed her fingers against the clean white parchment and sighed, wishing she could have seen what Edward described in the flesh, if only to determine if she could read the puzzle for herself. If she knew the man at all, he had almost certainly composed the entire letter in his head, mused upon it for the space of a minute or two, and then hurried the thing off with barely a second thought as to her reaction. Her smile broadened as she imagined him puffing at his pipe like a petulant Fox Terrier, before launching himself at pen and paper. She opened the letter again, smoothing it flat and leaning closer to peer at it. Nodding succinctly, she drew a fresh parchment towards her, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and began to write.

Dear Edward,

The puzzle you have presented me with is an intriguing one. And, as you say, I have only just received your letter, and already am dashing a reply in the hopes that it may lessen your tedium somewhat. In that vein, you must bear with my meandering ‘assumptions’. Although I do wonder: what are these unmentionables you speak of? Why, indeed, allude to them at all, if not for the want of them to be mentioned? But there, never mind; I speak truthfully, for the mind does wander.

Allow me, then, to take you through my thoughts:

I foremost ponder this question: murder, or accident? Let us look at the most obvious of indications: why engage the services of the constables, if the case was merely one of accidental death? On this alone I might make assumptions; but assumptions are precarious things, and so I will endeavour to reason by way of the facts you have given me.

His family life is not an ideal one. But whose is, when a husband possesses a fervent taste for drink? It is clear that his neighbours have a dislike for him. He was, from their own mouths, a drunkard and a gambler, indebted to many; possibly to these same men. We might conclude that the marks born by his wife and children brand him as offensive and abusive, and therefore highly unlikely to be popular on these fronts. What have we then? A distinctly detested man with not a one to play his advocate.

Now, we might consider the body itself. The Constable argues that the man, thoroughly under the influence of drink, toppled from the third storey window. You cannot see it, but I am smiling: how could it be so predictably simple? You might frown at me now, and exclaim that I mustn’t make assumptions: but I have not. Because what of the blood? With the description of a blow to the back of the head, we conclude cranial trauma; at the very least, the disruption of blood flow. Head wounds bleed profusely, and yet you have not mentioned the puddle that would surely have leaked from the man’s cranium if he had cracked it upon the cobblestones. Additionally, the puncture wounds from the glass were sprinkled about the front of the torso, and yet the back of the skull suffered the trauma. How could this be possible, unless he had managed to get himself battered on separate occasions? So far as I am aware, if one endeavours to jump from a window to the streets below, only one side of the body lands at a given moment- unless he were a sort of demigod, which I have a strong suspicion this man was not.

And as for the glass pieces: how strong of a likelihood is it that our victim fell directly onto those nine shards, avoiding cuts to any other part of his body? How, indeed, did the broken bottles come to be there? Could he have dropped his own bottle beneath himself, ensuring death by his own means?

Forgive me, I must put aside this letter for a moment. You have presented me with an enchanting distraction- perhaps enchanting ought not to be the word, but I’ve an inkling that you might just understand. Needs must, when the devil drives.

She sighed, throwing her pen into the inkwell and twisting her hand in an effort to relieve a cramp. It amused her to no end that Edward had thought to lay bare the facts of a case in an effort to see how she would fare. She leaned back into the old, creaking chair, fingering the edges of her corset in an effort to slacken its confining strings.

The case was an interesting one, never mind that she had hardly had reason to be asked her opinion on a possible murder. Indeed, any circumstance of this nature would be equally as intriguing, for Liziwe was quickly realising that the sudden appearance of Edward Skweyiya and her subsequent understanding of the man was as interesting an event in her life as there was ever bound to be, forever caged as she was to the space of her parent’s home. To be sure, her phantom’s presence was all together thrilling and terrifying, but he had shown not a wisp of himself since vanishing into the night.

Liziwe irritably pushed all thoughts of her apparition aside, rolling her back into a straight bearing as the chair groaned ominously beneath her. The letter demanded her attention, and she grasped it again, her lips moving silently as she read his cramped script. Wounds of varying size; between two and five centimetres. But why then such a discrepancy, unless the shards had also been so inconstant in size...?     

Stab wounds.

She abruptly bolted from her seat, ideas cavorting merrily in her head as she clattered down the stairs in search of a disused bottle.  

~0~0~

The bell jangled anxiously, and Miriam’s hand leapt at the ancient clavichord. She winced and rose from her seat, her hands fluttering anxiously to the brim of her straw hat as she peered from the window of the sitting room and out into the verandah. A man stood deliberately at the door, dressed in a dark and heavy coat, much too warm for the current season. His head was turned away from her, and he leaned against the door post, his legs crossed casually. Who on Earth...?

‘‘Boniswa!’’ quaked Miriam, ‘‘Boniswa, where are you, you silly girl, there’s a gentleman at the door! Let him in, let him in! And find Doctor Matiwane, for goodness sake, if he’s not gone out…’’ Fumbling at the knot of her apron, Miriam shuffled briskly into the kitchen, hanging the utilitarian cloth on a peg near the door. ‘‘Have you any idea who he is? Or where Liziwe is! Heavens, that child will be the death of me! And tea, Boniswa, tea!’’ The bell came again as the servant girl scurried between the door and Miriam, who stood flapping her hands and turning in circles, quite unsure of what to do first. ‘‘The door! Open the door, you turkey!’’ shrilled Miriam, rushing back to the sitting room, at once pinching her cheeks in an effort to bring some colour and craning her neck around the corners in the hope that Liziwe might make a sudden appearance. It was no use; Liziwe was, she was sure of it, up to no good- and so Miriam found herself settled, looking quite the picture of a flustered mother hen. Boniswa flung the door open none too gently, rubicund in the face herself and, at Miriam’s raised brow, cast her eyes down, and said primly, ‘‘A Mr Xakatha to see Dr Matiwane, Madam,’’ Miriam’s mouth twisted in annoyance, and she let out an irritated sigh. ‘‘And here I was wondering if perhaps Liziwe had a suitor, but never mind; I suspect he is just a patient-’’

‘‘Do not take it as a complete falsehood, Mrs Matiwane. I am quite sure that Miss Matiwane has suitors in plenty,’’ spoke a smooth, silky voice. Mr Xakatha had shuffled forward into the room, silent as a ghost, so that Miriam had not noticed his passage. His eyes gleamed like a wolf at the door as he approached. Dr Matiwane often had a veritable potpourri of callers at his door, come to gripe of various medical ailments; but Mr Xakatha was of a different sort entirely. He brought with him a presence both frigid and ominous, possessing a sense of dread that Miriam could not dismiss entirely. But she was a proud woman, and would not be put off by spiritualistic drivel; and so she planted a bright smile onto her face and replied, ‘‘Oh! Do excuse me, Mr Xakatha, was it?’’

‘‘Indeed, Madam,’’ replied he, a vague smile crossing his face as he watched her. He did not speak again, and only lingered beside her, his countenance severe and somehow dismal. He was not a tall man, and did not embrace intimidation as one of his characteristics, but unease was a trait which he inspired in Miriam. She smiled uncomfortably in response, but was soon forced to cast her eyes elsewhere under the weight of his unflinching gaze, and searched awkwardly instead for a subject of conversation.

‘‘Oh, do sit down, Mr Xakatha,’’ she said after a moment, breaking the silence. ‘‘I am sure Boniswa will bring tea shortly; ah, yes, here she is now. Now, how may I help you? I’ve only just remembered Dr Matiwane is away at the moment, I’m afraid; Mrs Bonase, you know, has narcolepsy, the poor dear, one can only wonder what a dreadful time she must have of it. Imagine! Falling asleep at the drop of a hat, perhaps even in one’s own tea!’’

‘‘It is no matter, Mrs Matiwane. And if I may take tea, that would be most welcome.’’ He fixed her with a direct gaze, the ghost of a smile passing over his face as he sat smoothly. ‘‘Is Miss Matiwane about? While I am here I would very much like to see her.’’

‘‘Oh? You’ve met Liziwe then?’’ enquired Miriam cheerily, though the undercurrents of her agitation began to peek through into the sharp tone of her voice.

‘‘I have,’’ replied he, and again said no more. There was something distinctly off-putting about this man; and yet, Miriam could not seem to put her finger on it. It was certainly not his appearance, for while he was not what one would call conventionally handsome, there was a languid, silken grace to his manner, as if he could persuade any man or woman to do anything he wished. Indeed, Miriam found herself laughing lightly, and pouring the unwanted guest a cup of tea.

They fell into an uncomfortable lull as they sat; or at least this was the case on Miriam’s end, as she sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap while Mr Xakatha serenely sipped at his tea. ‘‘And on what business do you wish to see Dr Matiwane?’’ She spoke finally, in an effort to be amenable.

His lips twitched upwards, and his eyes glinted as he leaned forward, settling the fragile cup into its saucer. ‘‘That, I fear,’’ he said in a curious, melodious tone, ‘‘is a matter which I am not altogether ready to unveil.’’

There was an almighty crash from the back of the house, starting Miriam from her seat. She was suddenly quite glad for her own lack of tea, as the riotous din of broken glass on concrete carried systematically on. ‘‘Dear Lord! Please, you must pardon us, Mr Xakatha!’’ she apologised swiftly, rising hastily to peer out into the passage. Not a soul was to be seen, nor was the source of the commotion evident. ‘‘Boniswa!’’ she shrieked, all thought of propriety flown from her head, her nerves frayed entirely.

‘‘It’s Liziwe, Madam!’’ came Boniswa’s voice from afar. ‘‘She’s… I’m not sure what she’s doing!’’ The sound of breaking glass ceased, only to be followed by a loud whump and crunch.

‘‘Oh for heaven’s…Mr Xakatha, do excuse-’’ Miriam began, but as she turned, she found that their guest had vanished, his cup still steaming in its saucer.

Liziwe was to be discovered in her room with the window flung wide, her slight body swaying halfway out into the air as she smiled widely down at the small brick path to the garden. A half dozen glass bottle-necks could be spied peering between the paving stones, glittering brightly in the high sun. It was rather a good thing that her father was partial to gin, and indeed made a rather outlandish show of saving the emptied bottles. She knew there would be hell to pay for this particular experiment; but she took intense, and perhaps brutal, satisfaction in the disruption of a fine, quiet, spring day. There was something so brilliantly vulgar in the act of destruction; ah, but destruction for a specific end, that she could justify, and did so with preference. She had nicked two tomes from their scant library: a collected works of Maqoma and one of Ntsikana, for they had seemed the heaviest and least used. Reaching to her desk from her perch, she collected the heavier of the two, grinning wildly. She clutched at the window frame with a vice grip, balancing on her toes as she precariously leaned into the wild air, extending the volume out and over the broken glass. Holding her breath, she let it go, and it tumbled from her hands, opening in midair and careening earthwards, landing with its pages bent and crusty, the cover splayed on the concrete in a macabre fashion. She grimaced at it; the great military commander would surely not be amused. It was a ridiculous experiment, to be sure, but there seemed nothing better to be done, and so she reached for Ntsikana, lying innocently on her desk. She took him up in both her hands and, taking care to hook her stockinged foot around the curtain’s pulley, and again leaned out of the window, bracing her knees. Down she dropped the book, and the crunch that echoed back to her ears was intensely satisfying. It had landed perfectly on the glass this time, and she nodded to herself in gratification.

‘‘Liziwe!’’ The shriek was heard from below, and she scowled, knowing full well that the old bird had found her out. It was not unexpected, but nevertheless undesired, and she sighed, turning to smooth her dress and jump from the window seat. But she did not.

The Man stood quietly, just inside punching distance, watching her mildly. Her breath caught in a gasp at the unwanted intrusion, and her mind raced to express the outrage and fear that began to course through her veins. ‘‘Did your experiment work?’’ he enquired conversationally, but she could not move, transfixed as she was to see him in her home, in the space of her own quarters. Her lips parted, and the silence was broken only by the muffled oaths of Boniswa from below. ‘‘How did you know it was an experiment?’’ She enquired finally, though she had not moved, the edges of her skirt still clutched in her hand.

‘‘I could only imagine,’’ he replied with a shrewd smile, ‘‘that there must be some reason to smash gin bottles and be rid of Maqoma, other than the vice of… self-indulgence. And what, pray tell, was this experiment for? Perhaps it has to do with the industrious Mr Skweyiya?’’

‘‘It is of no consequence,’’ she snapped, smoothing her skirts and lowering herself to the floor. ‘‘You have no right to be here! Why, I do not even know your name, and you dare...! How dare you trespass here! You must leave, sir, immediately!’’

‘‘Mrs Matiwane and I were just sitting down to tea. I thought I would inquire if you would like to join us. Your Mother made it quite plain only a moment ago that she was not pleased with your... experiments,’’

Her mouth went dry, and she blinked up at him, distrustful of his words. ‘‘My... Mother invited you to tea?’’ She enquired slowly, her eyes narrowing as her mind raced the through the avenues she knew her mother was likely to follow at the appearance of a single young man in their sitting room. Her glance darted to his left hand, and it was as she feared: ringless. And as he caught the direction of her gaze, his smile broadened. ‘‘Good, very good!’’ He crooned, ‘‘I am, indeed, unmarried.’’ Though he readied himself to leave, she felt cold dread bloom in her breast at the very thought.

‘‘I am not in need of tea,’’ Liziwe stated bluntly, ‘‘And I am...’’ she hesitated, knowing her face would plainly speak the truth when caught in a lie, but steeled herself to forge ahead regardless. ‘‘I am engaged. To Mr Edward Skweyiya.’’

He laughed then, a full-faced, broad cackle that did not reach his eyes. ‘‘Is it so? Then it is a very good thing that I am here to see your Father, and not you. I wish you and Mr Skweyiya all the very best.’’

‘‘How do you know of him?’’ the words sprang to her lips as he turned to leave, and he hesitated, his hand caressing the frame of a Rembrandt, his pale fingers contrasting starkly with the warmth of the wood on which he laid them. He smiled to himself before catching her eye, and spoke. ‘‘I take a professional interest, nothing more. Good day, Miss Matiwane… I am sure we will see much more of each other, in the future.’’ He cocked his head and glanced again at her, as if taking in her essence in a manner both cavalier and razor-sharp. ‘‘Oh, and Miss Matiwane,’’ he paused, and she held her breath, paralysed by the sheer indifference of his bearing, ‘‘Have a care with your lies; they will wear out, mark my words.’’ And he left her with one last smirk, before shutting the door firmly above him. She stood, beet-red and trembling, and wishing she had thought to bring another tome to lob at something, anything. His appearance had not been altogether unexpected; in truth she had known he would come to her again, but it did not diminish the trickle of unease that ran down her spine. Skulking in the corners of her mind, Liziwe understood an inkling of what his ambition might be; but as to the why of it, she could not fathom him at all.

The wooden floors creaked as he made his way to the sitting room, and she heard the surprised voice of her Mother as her intruder returned to the sitting room. She set her lips in a thin line, determined to ignore the entire event. Launching herself forward, she thrust her feet into the little shoes lying arbitrarily by the desk, and wrenched the door open. She descended the little winding steps with no effort to keep quiet, and could hear the murmur in the sitting room pause.

She lifted her head high and marched past the open door, refusing to turn her head as her mother barked her name sharply. ‘‘Liziwe! Come here this instant!’’ But she did not, and whisked past and out the back of the house, onto the pathway and further to where her smashed bottles lay. Carefully she picked through the broken shards, noting that many of them were not large at all; indeed, an ample amount had been smashed into a fine powder. She stared down at the two books, narrowing her eyes and swiveling her head, attempting to make more of the scene in front of her than would meet the eye. Eventually she reached down, carefully extricating Ntsikana from his nest of broken glass. She smiled as she flipped him over, and gently brushed the half dozen pieces of glass lodged into his skin. It may not be scientific, she thought to herself, but it will do.

She spent the next half hour half-heartedly sweeping up the glass, straining her ears for the sounds of the intruder’s departure. The hum of voices had subsided, and yet he would not take his leave. The clink of china against china was relentless, and Liziwe was quite sure he had overstayed his welcome, even by her Mother’s unscrupulous standards. Her musings were interrupted by the crunch of footsteps round the front of the house, and her ears pricked, recognising her Father’s tread. She swiftly propped the broom against the rickety fence, and crept into the house on light feet.

The door snicked shut gently, and Dr Matiwane ambled in, lifting his hat from his balding head and placing it onto the rack. As he sent out a gusty sigh, relief at being home plain on his face, Miriam’s voice came high and shrill from the sitting room. ‘‘Oh, darling! We have a visitor, do please join us,’’

Elias drew in a deep breath, the drawn and mildly irritable expression on his face only exacerbated as he pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing his strength together. ‘‘And who do we have the honour of entertaining, my dear?’’ he enquired exasperatedly, and Liziwe smirked, knowing of his intense distaste for frivolous socialising.

‘‘It is Mr Xakatha, come to see you; come, we are at tea in the sitting room- ‘‘

But at this pronouncement, all traces of weariness dropped from Elias, and he stood, slack-jawed for all of a moment, before striding forward purposefully into the sitting room. Liziwe frowned, and inched down the passage, the better to hear the ensuing conversation. Mr Xakatha’s voice came, smooth as glass. ‘‘Elias, it has been a very, very long time.’’

The wrought silence could have been cut with a knife, and Liziwe held her breath, wishing she could see the scene unfold. When her Father’s voice did come, it belonged to a man she did not recognise; a voice low and gruff and filled with fury. ‘‘Get out.’’ There was a low chuckle, and a step against the wooden floor. ‘‘I demand of you to leave, this instant. Get out!’’ The voice was infinitely firm and forceful, and Liziwe feared her Father might attempt to manhandle the man in an effort to assure his exit; but the laughter continued, and the footsteps drew closer to her secreted position. She drew a sharp breath and darted for the end of the passage, but Mr Xakatha appeared, the very image of her specter. He turned his head slowly to look upon her, smiling his sharp smile, his lips peeled back to show perfect teeth. ‘‘Farewell, Liziwe; I will see you again quite soon; be sure of it.’’ And with that he turned on his heel and left the way he had come, leaving the door ajar, the fine spring breeze whistling through the house.

~0~0~

See, Mr Skweyiya; I am a woman of my word, and am determined to have this to you post-haste. My experiments, as you might call them- for that is what I paused to do- are hardly what we might call scientific, but they must suffice for the time being.

I have, myself, thrown many gin bottles out the window- and though my room lies at but two storeys in height, each bottle has persisted in smashing itself into pieces no longer than my thumb and, in many cases, into a fine powder; certainly not capable of stabbing a man to the depth you spoke of. I have furthermore concluded that a body could not be so fatally pierced by falling onto these glass pieces, and I am sure you would have informed me if one of these pieces resembled something in more the nature of a sharp stake, rather than an immaterial shard that looked as if it had come off a teacup. To be sure, there would be damage- but it would not be fatal, nor so uniform in nature. No, Constable: you have, as I suspected, a murder upon your hands. Wounds of this nature could not be executed without considerable force to drive them.

The damage done to the back of his head is curious; I wonder if perhaps the man was clubbed whilst severely inebriated, thus causing less of a struggle, and then flung from the window. He could hardly have endured such acute injuries to both the front and back from a single fall. What does puzzle me is the clear difference in size of the wounds. If it is not possible for the glass pieces, in all their variety, to have created the wounds, then what on Earth could, that possesses such clear differences in size? Could our resolution possibly be to place the blame of murder on not one man, but many? The sheer number of wounds might be understood as a gesture: in short, no single soul wishes to have the sin of murder upon his conscience. It is as if these men believe the committing of a murder might be less damaging to their eternal being if extended amongst many. I recall that Julius Caesar was killed in just such a similar vein, though I could be wrong; and this man certainly does not merit the status of Caesar! Moreover, if it were a single, efficient man intent on destruction, he might have done his research better: a single slash to the femoral artery, located on the inner thigh, or to the brachial artery, in the armpit, (in case you weren’t aware,) would have our victim dead in the space of several minutes, due to blood loss alone. Although, someone did after all deal the fatal blow; likely the deepest cut you mentioned, a slash to the lower left of the abdomen, striking a kidney.

What can I then conclude, Constable, from the evidence of these facts? Perhaps it was his neighbours, or perhaps another force of disgruntled malcontents; but it was, I believe, a group of men (balance of probability; I for one have never heard tell of such a surly and vengeful band of women,) who stabbed our victim to death. Perhaps he was bludgeoned on the back of the head with the very same bottle he had himself indulged in (this small detail is entirely chance, but would it not be perfectly poetic?) after which, each man delivered a stroke under stress of solidarity .He was then pushed from the window, where glass pieces had already been scattered, the better for the event to seem entirely an accident.

There, Mr Skweyiya- I can only hope that I have laid waste to your boredom! Now, do tell me: am I correct? Or has my fanciful mind led me too far astray?

As for myself, I will tell you only that today was a strange day. I dare not bring the reasons for this to the forefront of my mind; and truth be told, I am not sure it would interest you in the slightest. But I have thought of you often, if only to conjure up the odd mechanics of your brain, and am glad that you have written. It is most refreshing to receive a letter that requires such enlivening of the mind; I sometimes wonder if I will go mad in the tedium of daily life. But I am a woman, and it is the cross I must bear. I often wish I could have action in my life, like a man; for I fear all my days will pass between these four walls… forgive me, I have spoken too frankly. Although I must confess it, you have rallied my spirit, and so it is to your spirit that I address this now: I give you thanks, Edward, for this blessed moment of respite.

Yours,

Liziwe Matiwane