Skull: Part 1/2

A Crime Story

Photo by Gleb Lucky on Unsplash

November 15th 1899

Only those most familiar with the hills would be able to accurately, safely navigate their way across the moorland terrain in the dead of night.

Grey fog could send the careless traveller wandering into a bog, down the side of the hills or into the clawing branches of the numerous wooded spots. One wrong turn, one misplaced step, is how people go missing, never to be heard from again.

When walking the hills in the light of day, it is possible to see the ridgeline where the sky meets the land out in front and to see the peaks already crested behind.

The fog and the dark reduce visibility to nothing on this chilly night, at this early hour, that it would be nigh on impossible to see more than a few feet of the path ahead. Likewise, it would be impossible to retrace steps on the path already trodden.

Despite the inky blue dawn light starting off the day, the fog persisted. The shadowy figure manoeuvres across the moors like a deer under the cover of the atmospheric camouflage.

The figure picks an efficient route across the moors, slips on the dew-slick surface, regains its footing and presses on. The ground is not cold enough to have frozen, though this makes it no less treacherous.

The winding path comes into focus bit by bit, step by step, and the way back is swallowed at the same rate.

The yawning mouth of the cave appears within the gloom. The figure stops outside, not to look, for that is impossible, but to listen. To listen for sounds of a pursuer. It decides that it is alone and enters the cave.

The figure uses the back of its hand to wipe the moisture off of its brow. Its face is covered and a hood is up, exposing only the eyes.

Inside, leaves and twigs crunch underfoot. From the centre of the cave, the figure can almost touch both sides, while the far end zigzags into an ever-narrowing fissure.

It takes out a bundle, places it on the ground and unwraps the cloth. The skull stares up as the figure deposits it on the ground. The figure sweeps some leaves and debris into the eye sockets, partially concealing the skull.

The figure stows the cloth away, takes one last look at the skull, and leaves the cave, back into the fog.

November 16th 1899

‘Have you read the paper this morning?’ said a man prodding the headline with his index finger. ‘Lock yer doors and keep yer rifle close. That’s what I say,’ he nodded to his rifle leaning against the bar. He had a weathered look and was dressed in a sturdy pair of boots caked with fresh mud. His green hunting jacket was folded in half on top of the bar and his hat on top of that.

An anxious-looking woman in her middle years approached him. ‘Excuse me?’

‘What do you want, tourist?’ he growled.

She looked back at her husband.

He shrugged.

‘Well, I was wondering if I could see the paper? Is it serious, what happened?’

‘I’m done with it anyway,’ he turned and sipped his coffee.

She stood on the spot a moment, unsure whether he was going to hand it to her given that it was right in front of him, or if she should take it herself. He didn’t move so she reached for it, pulled her hand back before she got halfway, and looked at her husband again.

He nodded, cheeks wobbling.

She reached over again, all the way this time and took it between her fingertips. Pulling it towards her, slow at first in case he changed his mind, then quickly until she had it in both hands.

She read it right there at the bar, turning more and more pale the more she read. ‘Oh, John!’

‘What is it, Eve?’

‘Someone went missing last year. They were last seen not too far from here.’

‘Hmm,’ he said. 

‘What if they ran away? You know? A relationship ended badly and he wanted a new start.’

‘Lord knows, you drive me around the bend sometimes,’ he said in jest.

Eve stared at him.

‘It’s a man, Eve. What kind of man would leave his home over a bad break-up?’

She looked back at the article. ‘It says here that the anniversary of his disappearance just passed yesterday. And, Oh my.’

John got up and crossed the dining room to read for himself. ‘On November 15th, a skull was discovered in a cave not too far north of where we are now. That was yesterday. Found by local resident and business owner, William Cooper. A detective Edward Bancroft is travelling up from Violshire to investigate. Well, it must be serious if the big guns are coming all the way up to this little town in Calderdale.’

‘Mark my words,’ the hunter said, fastening his coat up. ‘More tourists’ll be coming around with a murderer on the streets. They’ll want the reward for catching him. Plenty of new victims for the killer to choose from.’ He drained his coffee, snatched up his rifle and left.

The landlady had been repeatedly drying a set of mugs while she listened in on the conversation. Running a place like this must be exhausting, and yet, the landlady wore a smile and got on with it. She stepped forward to take the hunter's cup and caught Eve’s eye. ‘Don’t you worry about Old Jack. You’ve actually caught him in a good mood today believe it or not.’

‘Lucky us,’ said John.

‘John!’ said Eve, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Anyway, we’ve just arrived and were about to check into our room. And have a hot cup of coffee.’

‘Oh, you must be Eve? I’m Anne Cooper. Me and my husband, William, we run this place.’

‘William Cooper?’ said John skimming through the article. ‘This William Cooper? He’s the one that found the skull yesterday.’

‘Well we love it,’ Eve interjected. ‘So much character. And the location - stunning!’

‘All right, Anne,’ said a man appearing from the kitchen. He was overweight with a puffy face and a bald patch. ‘The guests have ordered a coffee. How about you go and make it.’

‘She’ll show you to your room when you’re ready.’ He left through the front door, the same way Old Jack had a moment before.

November 15th 1898

The shadowy figure paces beside the lifeless body.

It opens a small box on the worktop and removes some pliers. It puts them in the man’s mouth, clamps down on a tooth and pulls.

The man’s head lifts slightly so the figure pins it down with its spare hand.

It pulls again and twists its wrist.

The tooth snaps off. Blood seeps into the man’s mouth.

The figure strolls back over to the box and deposits the tool and the tooth inside.

Gradually, the body regains consciousness. Everything is blurry at first. It is hard to place the direction of the sound of footsteps. But he knows he is not alone.

The man swallows blood.

He realises his knees and ankles are bound and panic sets in. Then he feels the wrist restraints. And the rope around his body which pins his elbows into his ribs.

He struggles and the ropes burn. The drug hasn’t completely worn off so his scream is weak. He wrestles with the ropes some more but his wrists are tender now. It takes up energy that he doesn’t have and his head lolls to the side.

The figure is hooded and its face is covered. It approaches him. There is a knife in its hand.

The man barely feels the blade pierce the artery in his leg. 

As his life gushes onto the floor, the figure brings the blade up to his throat. The cold metal shines red with his blood.

‘What do you want?’ he manages.

The figure applies pressure and draws the knife across his throat, opening a fleshy void. The figure steps back to avoid a coating of crimson spray which follows.

He fights for a breath he’ll never take. Blood bubbles, hot and thick. It flows over his chest and shoulders and soaks into his bed of straw.

The body convulses, sending scarlet drops from the mouth in every direction.

Then it is still.

The shadowy figure takes out a pair of dressmaker shears and places them beside the body. It removes the shoes and socks and then cuts away the trousers with the shears, exposing his manhood.

The figure moves onto the torso, shearing through the man's bloodied shirt and vest and down each sleeve, leaving him totally bare.

Then it takes the blade it used to cut the man’s throat with and slices through the flesh around his joints. First, around the knees. It cuts through to the bone with a scrape. It snaps the bottom half of the leg off, though it didn’t come off entirely so it sawed through the remaining gristle until it separated from the body.

It discarded the body part and continued the methodical process on the elbows, shoulders and hips.

Only the skull and the tooth would ever be seen again.

November 16th 1899

Reporters scrambled to get to the front of the pack. Each one is as greedy as the next. Notepad and pen poised.

A photographer readies his camera.

‘Look,’ said a lanky reporter, extending a long finger.

The train rounded the hillside, expelling a great plume of smoke.

‘It’s here!’ shouted another reporter.

‘He’s here!’ shouted a third.

They bumped and barged with one another in their rush to get the best spot to ask their question.

The train clunked into the station and came to a stop with a squeal of breaks. Passengers poured onto the platform and out of the station as the press pushed their way in.

A man stepped off the train. A skull had been discovered and he was here to find out who killed the person and left the skull in a cave. Tall and dressed in a suit, he carried a luggage case with a few changes of clothes. This was a man that would stay for as long as it took.

He remained where he was for a moment while he assessed the situation. Through the wisps of fog, a pack of reporters headed straight for him. They looked comical as they travelled at the same speed and direction as the departing train.

‘Detective Bancroft, we have a few questions about the skull discovered yesterday,’ one of them started.

‘If you’ve been called in from Violshire, what does it say about the local police?’ said another.

‘Are there any suspects?’

‘Do you have a message for the people of Calderdale?’

‘When can we expect an arrest?’

There was a danger of nobody being heard over the noise that they themselves were making. Bancroft held up a hand for silence. The reporter's yapping turned into murmurs. The murmurs faded. And for the first time, they were quiet.

‘I am detective Edward Bancroft. I am very experienced in dealing with things most unsavoury.’

‘What about-’

‘No!’ Bancroft cut the interruption short. ‘I have familiarised myself with the case during my journey.’

The reporters scribbled shorthand to keep up.

‘There is now a procedure to follow. I want nothing more than a swift resolution so the people of Calderdale can sleep soundly in their beds. Now, if you will be ever so kind, I’d like to get started.’

He walked out of the station and into a hansom cab that was waiting to escort him.

‘He’ll be going to William Cooper's place,’ said the lanky reporter.

The rest of them agreed at more or less the same time and drowned each other out. They started towards William Cooper’s Inn as one where they could continue their lines of enquiry.

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To be Continued…