IT WAS exactly like the murdered grooms—the gaping throat that on first glance seemed simply an especially vicious laceration but that upon further inspection betrayed a substantial removal of flesh. Svenson held a candle close to the wound, aware that his examination caused the townsfolk around him to blanch and turn away. He was certain, especially after seeing the murdered boy's legs, that the father had been killed by a weapon of blue glass.
He tilted the man's head, frowning at the discolored band of skin that stretched on either side of the wound. He looked up, and saw the head townsman—who had on their walk to this house introduced himself as Mr. Bolte—notice his discovery.
“He was hanged once,” said Mr. Bolte. “Neck didn't break and he was cut down—proven innocent, he said.”
“Or freed by his friends,” muttered one of the women.
“What did he do?” asked Svenson. “What work in the town?”
“In the mines,” said Bolte. “But he'd been ill. The boy supported them both.”
“How could his wages be enough?” asked Svenson. “Was the man also perhaps… a thief?”
He received no reply—but no denial. Svenson spoke carefully. “I am wondering if any person might have reason to kill him.”
“But why kill his son?” asked Bolte.
“What if the boy saw the murder?” said Svenson.
Bolte looked to the faces around him and then back to Svenson. “We will take you to Mrs. Daube.”
MR. BOLTE and one of his fellows—Mr. Carper, a very short man whose torso was the exact size of a barrel—accompanied Svenson to the inn. The Flaming Star's landlady met them in the perfectly hospitable common room. The Doctor smelled food from the kitchen and gazed jealously past her shoulder to the crackling fire. He nodded kindly at Mrs. Daube as she was named to him, but her eyes darkened as Bolte narrated the circumstances of the Doctor's arrival in Karthe.
“It is that villain,” she announced.
Mr. Bolte paused at the vicious look on the woman's face. “What villain, Mrs. Daube?”
“He threatened me. He threatened Franck. He had a knife—waved it right in my face—in this very room!”
“A knife!” Mr. Carper spoke across Svenson to Bolte. “You saw how the boy was cut!”
Mr. Bolte cleared his throat and called gravely to the young man now visible near the kitchen door.
“What man, Franck?”
“In red, with his eyes cut up, dark glasses. Like a devil.”
“He is a devil!” growled Mrs. Daube.
Svenson's heart sank. Who knew what Chang might have done?
Another voice broke into his thoughts, from the foot of the stairs. “Who are you exactly, sir? I confess I did not hear your introduction.”
The speaker was younger than Svenson—perhaps an age with Chang—with combed, well-oiled black hair and wearing, of all things, black business attire for the city.
“Abelard Svenson. I am a Doctor.”
“From Germany?” The man's smile floated just short of a sneer.
“Macklenburg.”
“Long way from Macklenburg.”
“And yet not so far away to introduce oneself politely,” observed Svenson.
“Mr. Potts is a guest of the Flaming Star,” said Mrs. Daube importantly. “One of a hunting party—”
Svenson looked at the man's pale hands and walking shoes, his well-pressed trouser crease.
Mr. Potts caught Svenson's gaze and cut the woman off with a crisp smile.
“So sorry, to be sure. Potts. Martin Potts. But do you know this— this devil?”
“I know of him. We had been to the same village, up north.”
“Was there trouble?” asked Mr. Carper.
“Of course there was trouble,” hissed Mrs. Daube.
“But who is he?” demanded Mr. Bolte. “Where is he now?”
“I do not know,” said Svenson, looking straight at Potts. “He is called Chang. My understanding is that he was returning to the city.”
“And yet now there has been murder,” observed Mr. Potts mildly, and cocked his head to Bolte. “I heard you mention a boy?”
“Young Willem,” explained Bolte. “A stable groom. This gentleman found him at the black rocks, savagely attacked—we were unable to save him. You know his father—”
“Murdered this night!” whispered Franck.
“Just like that devil promised!” cried Mrs. Daube. “He told me plain as day that any person crossing him would die. No doubt he went from here to the stables! Now that I remember, I am sure he said it quite clear: ‘If that boy crosses me—”
The two townsmen erupted in astonished and outraged shouts, demanding that Mrs. Daube explain more, demanding of Svenson where his friend was hiding, insisting (this was Mr. Carper) that the fellow be hanged. Svenson put up his hands and called out, his eyes darting between the strangely satisfied innkeeper and her watchful guest.
“Gentlemen—please! I am sure this woman is wrong!”
“How am I wrong?” she sneered. “I know what I saw—and what he said! And now you say the boy's been slaughtered!”
“The many cuts—” began Mr. Bolte.
“The knife!” cried Mr. Carper.
“I understand!” shouted Svenson, raising his hands again to quiet them.
“Who are you anyway?” muttered Mrs. Daube.
“I am a surgeon,” said Svenson. “I have spent the last hour attempting to save that poor boy's life—I am not unmindful of the savage way in which he was killed. Mrs. Daube, you have told us what Chang—”