‘I will. It’s been good to speak to you again, Tom. Been a while.’
‘And you.’
Dr Griffith hung up abruptly and the line purred. Julian was about to set his phone down when he heard the faintest click over the earpiece. The purring sound cut out momentarily and he thought he could detect, if only for a second or two, the rustling sound of movement picked up by an open microphone. Then another click, and the purr resumed.
He put the phone down, still looking at it.
‘That’s… that was odd,’ he muttered.
And not the first odd thing, either, is it?
Returning from a visit to the Soup Kitchen office earlier today, he had an inexplicable feeling that his flat had been entered. Not quite able to put his finger on the tiny, intangible details that made him think that — a book out of place, the mouse cable coiled differently around the back of the keyboard — he hadn’t been certain enough not to dismiss it as some sort of creeping paranoia.
But now this.
He looked again at the phone, long enough to convince himself that all he’d really heard was a digital gremlin on the network or, quite possibly, his line crossed with another for a fleeting moment.
He shook his head reproachfully. ‘Come on, Julian, get a grip.’
CHAPTER 39
24 October, 1856
A light downfall of snow during the night had not managed to fully conceal the trail left by the Indian; there were enough dark patches of almost black blood that had soaked into the snow and were now a frozen part of it.
Keats led the way up through the trees, his keen eyes squinting and watering from the dazzling upward reflection of sunlight off the snow. The sky was a clear blue, combed with one or two unthreatening clouds, and the sun beat down a welcome warmth on their backs and shoulders as they went uphill, moving between the trees from one splatter of frozen blood to the next.
A search party had not been painstakingly chosen; the old guide had simply emerged from his lean-to as soon as the sun had breached the tree line, and bellowed out with his foghorn voice that he was ready to go and wanted some volunteers.
Within a few minutes every single man and boy old enough to carry a gun had mustered in the centre of the camp around Keats and Broken Wing. Preston joined him promptly and then they dismissed roughly half the men to stay behind and guard the camp. The other half, eighteen men including the two trail captains, set off swiftly from the clearing and up the shallow bank of the forest floor, through saplings stripped bare for kindling and into the deep foliage of older trees.
They followed the trail for only about ten minutes, just long enough to lose sight of the camp below, climb a small spur and descend the other side towards a small glade beyond, when Broken Wing suddenly raised a hand and shouted out something in Ute.
Keats pulled his pipe out of his mouth and muttered, ‘This is where it happened all right. Jus’ up ahead.’
They emerged from the trees. Even dusted with snow and no bodies to be seen, it was clear a butcher’s blade had been hard at work here. A log, lying across the clearing, was slick with glassy frozen blood and beside it on the ground was what looked like a small heap of offal.
Ben took a few tentative steps towards it, knelt down and inspected it more closely. It reminded him fleetingly of the regular invitation-only demonstrations carried out, sectio cadaveris, in the lecture theatre off Threadneedle Street, on the illegally obtained cadavers of the hanged — the organs removed one by one, discussed, then discarded upon a growing grey and glistening pile.
‘I’m afraid these are human,’ said Ben. ‘I’m certain of that.’ He looked at the guide. ‘So, we know that, at the very least, one of them is dead,’ he added sombrely, feeling his voice thicken with emotion. He swallowed and steadied himself.
I can grieve for Sam later… but not now.
Keats hunkered down beside him and prodded the pile with a stick. It was frozen solid. ‘Guess this little guttin’ job must’ve been done yesterday,’ he said quietly.
Ben nodded.
‘Bear don’t gut his food before eatin’ it, not that I know of anyhow.’
Broken Wing, squatting on his haunches nearby, perfectly still, was reading the ground. His eyes traced a narrative out of the disturbed snow, his lips moving silently, telling him the tale. All of a sudden he stood up and strode across the glade, past Preston and the other men.
‘What is it?’ the minister asked.
In the middle of the glade, the snow had been trampled and disturbed more noticeably, and a curved arc of spattered blood was inscribed brightly across it.
‘Issss fighting here,’ he said, pointing to the blood. ‘Cut bad.’
Keats joined him. ‘Someone got cut bad all right,’ he said. The splatter arc was a grisly curl of dark crimson. ‘Fatal bad, I reckon.’ He looked around. ‘I guess it was that Paiute boy.’ He nodded in the direction they had come. ‘It’s his blood we been following up here.’
Broken Wing walked towards the bloodied log, stooped down and studied the ground. He spoke in Ute to Keats.
‘He says the Paiute boy picked your girl up over there, beside the log, an’ ran into the woods with her in his arms.’
Keats turned to Preston. ‘Brave young lad.’
He offered no response, his eyes locked on the confusing tapestry of blood and suggested movements written in the hard snow.
The guide squatted down and studied the ground near the log for a moment, his teeth clamping noisily on the stem of his pipe as he sucked a meagre mouthful of smoke from fading embers in the bowl.
Something caught Broken Wing’s eye and he brushed aside this morning’s light dusting to reveal twin grooves of compacted snow, stained dark and now as solid as ice. He nudged Keats and pointed.
Keats brushed more of the snow away. ‘Hey, Lambert, look at this,’ he said.
Ben took a couple of steps over, stepping past the men who had gathered closer to see what Keats was so interested in. He knelt down beside him and looked at the grooves.
‘What is that?’
Keats pointed with the long stem of his pipe. ‘Heel marks. Reckon a body was dragged away.’ He pointed to dark stains smeared along the ice-hard grooves. ‘Still bleedin’ like a stuck pig whilst it was dragged, I guess.’
Ben inwardly winced at the thoughtless choice of words. Broken Wing brushed aside more of this morning’s light powder, standing up and following the parallel grooves across the clearing towards the edge of the glade. Ben followed him and joined him there, looking through the foliage in front of him. He could discern a clear path of dislodged snow, the crushed stems of brambles and briar, flattened fern leaves and broken twigs, spotted here and there with dots and splatters of blood.
The others joined them and stared intently at the unmistakable trail left behind.
‘Whoever it was left tracks a blind man could follow,’ said Ben.
Preston stroked his bearded chin. ‘Whoever?’
‘Reckon we’re past lookin’ for a bear now,’ Keats nodded. ‘That leaves us, Indians, or demons… whichever you prefer. Ain’t made no effort to hide their trail, neither.’
Broken Wing pointed to another pair of faint parallel grooves, and spoke in his tongue.
‘Second trail there,’ said Keats.
Ben could see it. A second path through the undergrowth out of the clearing, but along this one there were no evident spots of blood.
‘Came back a while later an’ dragged another body away. Only I reckon this one was frozen up by then.’
