The Fall

It was a good night, one of those rare windy evenings towards the end of summer and the start of fall.

London’s streets were still grimy; no good wind could get rid of that. The chink of iron and the hollering of men floated faintly from the distant docks, and the good-natured chatter of gents and ladies amid the city welded in comfortably.

I knocked twice, sharply, on the wall of the coach I was in. The cabman slowed his horse to a stop. Whirling out of the coach, I tossed him two coins, with no regard for how much the amount was, presumably a lot, as he hollered after me with great gratitude, and turned my heels to bolt towards the house.

“Graves, you’re here,” Hale grunted at me, his coat muddied and crumpled.

“Who now?” I asked tiredly, “What do I have to deal with now?”

Perhaps just observing the black rings under my eyes, Hale grimaced and his tone softened imperceptibly, “Third victim. This time, at least, we’ve found a whole body. Let’s see what you can do with her. I’d like to be back home presently.”

Walking towards the building, I suddenly snagged my foot on some branch or otherwise, and my whole person lurched forward. Waving my arms helplessly, I fell onto the muddy ground with a most ridiculous splash. Hale helped me up and we patted my coat and shirt clear of dripping mud, but the damage was done. I frowned harshly and was thoroughly irritated at my discomposure.

The body was that of a 35-year-old female, named Harriet Gladstone, who had been, as the doctor concluded, injected with some chemical that had pumped up her blood pressure. Ms. Gladstone had been a victim of heart failure throughout her childhood, and although dormant, this had been the cause of her death. The chemical had been identified – the good doctor had taken a vial of alcohol and dipped a napkin containing her spit into it, and the alcohol turned bright green.

I shook my head, “Perhaps this is unrelated to the murders we’ve had before. The methods are completely different – Mr. Ackroyd was hit in the back of the head with a club and then…” I trailed off, unwilling to describe the state of the corpse, “…while Mr. Usher was shot in the temple, twice, then had both ears cut off. What I’m getting at is – the previous murders were brutal, violent, and bloody. This is clean.”

Hale looked at me, taken aback, “Are you saying – are you even insinuating that the murderer was being merciful here?”

“You were not the one who handled the bodies,” I retorted sharply, “I was.”

Hale sighed, “That was not what I meant, Cassian. But I do hope you can do something to solve this case, whether as a standalone or a series, very soon, if possible, to indicate your swift return. It would be maddening for the public to know – that is, I am familiar with your habit of avoiding fame – to know that the police have applied to Cassian Graves, of all people.”

I drew my lips together into an irritated line, “What’s past is past, Hale. I am off the hook completely, and I am no longer a madman. Time in the psychological ward has done me good, and I only take to my seclusion as a favored habit.”

Hale was impatient, “Well, see what you can do with this. I am gravely in need of returning home as my wife and newborn daughter are waiting for me.” And with that, he bid me good night, boarded the cab I had come from, and left without hesitation.

I sent the doctor and the constable away, preferring to have the room to myself. After staring at her face for a while, I started to pace up and down. My boots resounded through the wooden floorboards as I strode in agitation.

Tap, tap, tap, turn.

I looked at her face. Ms. Gladstone was a remarkably handsome young woman, with a resolute chin and high brow. She was resting there now, pale and quiet. Why did she need to be killed? There were considerable differences between her and the other victims.

Tap, tap, tap, turn.

I swung my head ferociously towards the window and looked out darkly at the royal-blue evening sky. Ackroyd had been fat. His waistcoat had been stuffed with riches that could hardly have been contained, his loins smeared with grease, his forehead glistening with perspiration.

Tap, tap, tap, turn.

I turned once again towards Ms. Gladstone. Her slim legs were spread wide out, her coat pooling on the floor as Mr. Usher’s coat had, pooling, pooling there like a wounded bat. Her delicate ears reminded me of those of Mr. Usher, his earlobes drooping on the floor.

Tap, tap, tap, turn.

My foot again snapped on a piece of protruding floorboard that I swore had not been there three seconds ago, and I fell. This time, without Hale at my side to help me up, my knees hit the ground with a loud thud, and there I was, struck to my knees, my body prostrate upon my thighs, as if I were praying to her.

My right leg bombarded me with its criticism – how dare you, how dare you!

My left leg retorted, “It was necessary, it was necessary.”

There I knelt, unmoving as a stone, my hands held together on my heart, in the position of praying, as my legs warred with each other.

Outside, it started to rain. The navy sky had allowed the black winds to come undetected, and as a boom ricocheted across the sky, I let out a cry as if I had been struck by lightning that fell from the sky. My stiff posture softened as I fell further down, my forehead touching the floor, barely a foot away from her.

There I lay, I do not know how long, but I stood up eventually.

I tore a page from her notebook on the desk, as she wouldn’t need that. I wrote a note for Hale. Footprints near window indicate hesitation of murderer. Marks near body indicate struggle. Hair still neat – was let down gently from a standing position after death. Was murdered because she had seen the murderer, was not a direct target. Older sister Margaret Gladstone was the target. Police will not be able to find her.

I took this note outside, where the rain had subsided. Before giving it to the cabbie, I took up my courage and added a few words to it. Upon writing the horrible words, I folded it hastily, called the cabbie, and ordered him to take the note to the police station.

I walked home slowly, hands in my pockets, deep in thought. I climbed the stairs to my home and then opened a bottle of wine. My hands were shaking so violently that I managed to pour the clear liquid onto my fingers.

I stared at them sorrowfully, resentfully, as the tips of my fingers turned bright green from the alcohol.

That night, there was the sound of a window opening, a thump, and a scream in the neighbourhood. The second day, the papers spread like wildfire – “Mad Murderer Commits Suicide, Falls From 2nd Floor.”