The Grimm Dossier

Chapter 13 - The Justice - Part I

West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George
4 November 1898, 12:15 p.m.

The constable was not long in coming. With a friendly nod and a polite smile, he greeted the two guests from London and then escorted them on a direct route to the official building. The market square was bustling with activity today. A few children were playing around the fountain, chasing each other in circles and a dog ran barking past them. In the houses of the circular marketplace, a few shops had opened their doors. The village was tiny and there was not much to be found here, but the essentials seemed to be on site: they could make out a cobbler, a tailor, a small grocer's shop, and a blacksmith on their way to the town hall.

Constable Baltimore looked neater today than the day before. Today he was properly wearing his helmet, although no one would have blamed him for not wearing it here in the country. His uniform was clean and carefully maintained, although it already looked a little worn. Only on the lower hem of his coat and trousers were splashes of dirt from his walk to the tavern. Unlike the seekers, he looked rested and highly motivated, for he folded his arms behind his back, strolled alongside the two gentlemen, and asked them about this and that. He wanted to know if they had slept well and tasted Mary's excellent stew, how long they planned to stay and how they knew Lord Sunderbrandy. But they didn't even get to answer this question, because after only a few turns they had already reached the small town hall.

Compared to a big city like London, of course, everything was comparatively small. The town hall was an old half-timbered building with wooden beams around the windows. Baltimore led the way and entered the anteroom of the office in front of them, where a young assistant welcomed them at a small desk. He did not necessarily look hard at work, hiding the telltale bulge of a book under a few papers more bad than good.

The young fellow with slicked-back blond hair finally led them into an adjoining room where the mayor was already waiting for them. The aging wooden floor creaked under the weight of the gentlemen as they entered the room, which was about the size of a taproom. A sprawling desk took up a large part of the room, while a massive shelf rose behind it. The numerous compartments were already yellowed, as well as bright white paper rolls of all sizes. Some were bound together with braided ribbons, some even in protective covers of sturdy leather. Still, others were less carefully laid aside. Books so large that it almost took two people to lift them were stacked on top of each other on a side shelf. Colorful bookmarks and seals hung out like little tails between the pages, trapped between finger-thick leather covers. 

Spines with silver letters, some artfully curved, others rough and hard, lined up a few shelves up. It smelled of ink, old paper, parchment, and dust. In a corner at the other end, a fire crackled in the stove, warming the room and shutting out the chill of autumn outside the window. But besides the fire, the only light that fell into the room at that time of day was through the small windows. There would not be a candle in the whole house, for the danger of fire was too great. So there were candle stubs on the desk, held behind glass shades, in glass lamps that were round at the bottom and narrower at the top.

Behind the desk, on a chair with thick cushions, but whose leather was already scuffed, faded, and worn through, rose the long figure of the mayor as the guests entered. All kinds of documents were spread out on the table in front of him. On a small plate was a small assortment of pastries and a carafe of reddish liquid that also filled a glass on his desk. Wine, without a doubt.

Constable Baltimore took off his helmet, and the gentlemen from London politely lowered their chins in greeting. The mayor gestured for the gentlemen to take their seats, then he sank back into the creaking chair. He tried to appear authoritarian. Nevertheless, restlessness and tension were evident in his posture as his fingers slid over the placket of his waistcoat and then settled on the armrests. Only to tap the tips of thin fingertips on the wood there.

"Well, let's not waste much time on dull chatter, then." the mayor finally spoke in a most official tone. But beneath his serious countenance, the ice crunched. He was tense, his features could have been chipped out of a rock with a chisel.

Baltimore cleared his throat, cast a sidelong glance at the two men, and Kyle nodded briefly before sitting up straighter in his seat. He leaned his walking stick against the chair. Back straight, he folded his hands together in his lap and fixed his gaze straight on the village headman.

"As I'm sure you've been informed by Constable Baltimore, we came to the village to assist him in the investigation and to find out if the deaths in your community were merely accidents," Kyle opened straightforwardly. His voice pitch had taken on a more official, firm tone and he noticed the doctor giving him a long look. But Kyle did not avert his gaze from the mayor, whose lips pressed together in testimony to the bitterness those words alone planted in his mind.

"I assure you, the deaths in our community were unfortunate accidents," he said, but his fingers gripped tighter around the handle of the chair. Even the imposing desk couldn't hide it and Kyle could imagine how hard it must be to lose your daughter and still have to keep your chin up."We understand it must be difficult for you." he, therefore, relented, "But the number of three deaths in such a short time is indeed worrying. After all, this is a small community. If it all turns out to be just an unfortunate coincidence, that would of course be most appreciated by all of us." that was what Kyle wanted to make clear. No matter how much he wanted a case to boost his reputation in the Lodge, he didn't want to pay for it with the lives of innocent people.

"What do you know about how difficult it is!" the mayor now rumbled, clenching his fingers into fists. Pain wrestled with reason in eyes enclosed by fine wrinkles with dark shadows beneath. "Our village preacher fell from the bell tower! His limbs were shattered, his body torn by birds and beasts! And by God his eyes-!" he broke off, running his hand over his own eyes and nose. "The thorns had torn his body open..." his face turned unhealthily pale. "And my daughter..." he forced out, and a vein throbbed at his neck under the pressure of his jaws on the gritted rows of teeth. He squinted his eyes as if he could block out the images with them. "The burns... her skin was black as pitch... we could barely..." he murmured. "The thought of someone doing that on purpose... we're a manageable community. How could anyone from here..." He swallowed several times, fighting for his composure but still failing. The shoulders of the seasoned man were shaking.