West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
4 November 1898, 1:56 pm

When they returned to the inn, two elderly gentlemen with already greying hair were sitting in the parlor. They were drinking tea together while Elly stood beside the counter and a young lad with flushed cheeks scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. Blond-brown hair had been swept back from his forehead more badly than it should have been and was caked with too much pomade or grease. You could tell he had dressed up. Elly held a small bouquet in her hands, which consisted of more greenery than flowers. The fellow held a brown slider cap to his chest and looked embarrassed and even a fool could guess what was going on there. Out of respect for the scene, the three gentlemen, therefore, remained standing at the entrance to the taproom for the time being. However, when Elly caught sight of Dr. Archer and Kyle, her expression brightened and her attention seemed to be drawn away from the poor fellow.

"Mr. Archer, Mr. Crowford. Henry! " she exclaimed, patting the fellow on the upper arm. "Thank you Layle, that was nice of you. I'll put them in a vase in a minute. Please give my love to your parents. And I'll have four more eggs for tomorrow." she said and then turned her attention to the gentlemen. Dr. Archer and Kyle had stood at a respectful distance, but after the lad's heart had clearly started to crack and he stomped off like a waterlogged dog, they stepped a little closer.

No sooner had the young gentleman stepped out of the door than she put the bouquet aside and smiled charmingly at the two gentlemen from London in particular. "Would you like me to make you a lunchtime tea? I also have fresh scones in the oven, which I'm sure will be ready soon." Exuberantly pleased, the young woman approached the young gentlemen."Thank you Elly. But we're not staying for tea." replied Baltimore. At this, the young lady's expression was already becoming quizzical.

She had gotten close enough that it was almost TOO close to Kyle again. The flowers on the counter also gave off an intense smell. They smelled far too sweet for this time of year. Kyle really wondered what devilish plant among all the herbs was poking his nose in such an unpleasant way. His gaze briefly slid to the clump of greenery with subliminal disgust. Unfortunately, he knew too little about plants and botany to guess which one was giving him a headache.

Elly extended her fingers and Kyle saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. Irritated, or almost frantic, he turned his head only to see the girl reach for his coat - no, his shoulder. He could have sworn that not a speck of dust had been found there, after all, he cared for his clothes as meticulously as he cared for himself. But Elly flicked or plucked something away and then stroked his shoulder to the side a few times.

At that moment he smelled it even more clearly. It wasn't the flowers or the bouquet that gave off the scent he didn't like. The smell he didn't like was attached to Elly. Because of her gesture, and also because of it, he took half a step back from her. The young barmaid seemed perplexed or at least surprised by the gesture. Dr. Archer also gave Kyle an appraising look. Instead of responding, however, Kyle continued what the constable had started.

"We need to talk to Mrs. Andrews."

"Oh." Elly groaned, shifting her weight as she twisted a strand of brown hair around her finger. "I'm so sorry." she apologized afterward, pursing her lips. Her fingers uncomfortably ruffled the apron in front of her legs as she reached in. Thick wrinkles then settled into the apron stained by the day's work and Elly looked even more exhausted. "Ms. Andrews left for Plymouth at lunchtime today. The loss was too much for her. She wanted to get some distance, so she went to see her relatives." The corners of Elly's mouth twitched and then curved way down. "I thought it would be a good idea. Because of the sea air, the company away from the village and.... well, away from this house."

Dr. Archer's expression barely stirred, yet Kyle was sure he saw an unnerved glare flash past behind the opaque irises. Only a telltale moment, then it was gone again.

Slowly, her eyes stroked the doctor's features, visibly taking their time. "Is there anything else I can help you with? What's so urgent?" She peered right and left and then even leaned towards him a little. Dr. Archer regarded the young woman for a few moments.

The atmosphere suddenly crackled and felt charged. Kyle felt the tingling of his left-hand streaking into his fingertips, causing him to tighten them into a fist.

"I'm sorry, but we can't tell you that," Kyle said outright, not knowing himself why his voice suddenly took on a harder tone. He wanted to make sure that Dr. Archer didn't after all carelessly pass on a juicy detail of her investigation simply to the tavern maid because of a few pretty eyeballs. Sure, she had shown herself as friendly and helpful so far. Nevertheless, it was precisely such things that they shouldn't go overboard with. Who knew who she might tell in the tavern, for she was very talkative.

"Why is that?" Elly continued, this time looking tensely at Kyle. She might still seem so mature when she was shooing men out of the pub. Now, however, her lack of maturity seeped out of her eyes far too strained, panting for details.

"It's a private business, Miss Oldren," Kyle explained simply.

Elly looked at him for a few heartbeats, caught off guard, perhaps a little offended. Kyle wondered if he was simply being too harsh or if she had never received such a rejection before. It was true, she was a pretty thing. And he had already noticed that people were more easily seduced into chatting by her easy manner, delicate nudge nose, or smile. With him, however, that wouldn't help her. With him, her magic seemed to miss its mark. Especially as long as she applied that penetratingly sweet scent that he could hardly stand.

A shadow flitted across Elly's eyes and she pressed her lips together tighter for a moment. The full pads of kisses became a thin line as if she might stomp her foot angrily at any moment. "I understand." she finally brought out, but her gaze continued to linger on him. Almost as if she expected him to change his mind after all. But he didn't.

Having registered that as well, she excused herself and scurried off to disappear with long strides into the kitchen. Clinking and clattering revealed that she was either taking out her frustration on the pots or had started to prepare dinner. Kyle hoped it was the latter.

The gentlemen then made their way out of the tavern to discuss further proceedings at the police headquarters. When they crossed the threshold, the fresh wind blew around their noses again and ruffled Kyle's hair a little.

"What was that?" the doctor asked, barely as they had taken a few steps as if Kyle had just placed a dead rat on the counter in front of the girl. A blatant reproach sounded in it.

Kyle stretched out his fingers, spread them, and then drummed them lightly against his side. Yet he did not regret what he had said. "We don't know if she might be involved in this whole thing somehow." he justified his reaction, even though he knew it might not be completely or at least exclusively true.

Now the constable also looked at him with a dismayed expression. "The girl is not even twenty."Kyle's gaze settled on his colleague and then on Baltimore.

"Do you think age matters when it comes to killing?" he then asked seriously. "You shouldn't be so easily wrapped around your finger." Kyle was right, they all knew that even if they pulled different memories out of wedged and dusty drawers.

Especially in war or on the streets, one saw, regrettably, what even young people or even children were capable of. Especially when certain circumstances, desperation, or aberrations forced them to do so. Various methods could lead to extremely cruel deaths. And sometimes it made no difference how young the person was.

Even a child could bake small shards into bread and even a young girl could spread poison on a knitting needle. A lad was capable of shooting a gun and even a blade, no matter who wielded it, in one devastating spot that could cost a person their life in a matter of seconds. It could have been anyone. Especially if, like Kyle and the Doctor, you had to think beyond the possibilities of sophisticated methods.

It was an unpleasant, unpleasant thought that just didn't quite want to fit in. At the same time, they couldn't just leave it aside. No matter how inappropriate it seemed at first glance. Especially not with the appearance of the small, idyllic village, where the community knew each other from an early age and stuck together in frosty winters as well as hot summers. Here, where money in notes was worth less than barter and a handshake sealed promises rather than contracts.

"We must not trust anyone here so easily." reminded Kyle. The doctor was silent, but then finally nodded. As if he needed to remember that.

The police station was plain and tiny. Since the constable was the only officer in the community, it was just a cleared little shop, with a work table and chair behind it and two in front of it. A staircase led upstairs to the bedroom. There was even a tiny kitchen on the ground floor. A staircase downstairs offered the single, tiny cell in the converted basement, which was dusty and had never been used. One would look in vain for more in the small police station. Together they sat down at the table where some files were piled on top of each other. A lot of light fell into the interior through a side window in the shape of an arch and the large glass front. The constable, in an attempt to be an acceptable host, brought in some tea and some hard biscuits. The bachelor didn't have much and the two searchers held back from complaining about the metallic and somewhat rusty taste of the tea.

The next few hours flew by. After the doctor pointed out that time was pressing to detect any poisons or other traces on the already buried and decomposing corpse, the tension in the investigators grew noticeably. They discussed whether they should approach the mayor Mr. Mosten again about the exhumation and how they could convince him. When the subject had first come up, he had reacted as indignantly as anyone in the village would have done. Superstition, fear of God, and a dread of God's literal bolt of punishment ingrained in one's upbringing since childhood made people sensitive to the idea of taking corpses out of their graves. All the more so since major waves of body snatching had caused bottomless indignation in the early 18th century. When the trade in corpses was finally banned in 1832, many careers as 'body snatchers' ended, yet it remained in people's memories today and provoked appropriate reactions.

The mayor did not completely close his mind to the idea, as did the padre. However, they were sure that the village head would not agree either, as long as the widow was not present or approved the project. Without consent and a court order, the ice was too thin for him. The consent and information of the relatives were a basic requirement. Since they could think of nothing else at the moment and the idea of an official application would produce nothing, they decided to turn to other deaths for the time being.

For this reason, the constable had given them the death certificates and scanty reports on the accidents. Unfortunately, they did not reveal much new information. But it did at least fill in some details that the searchers had not known so far.

Father Ewans had fallen from the bell tower on 6 October. It was not clear why he had been up there at such a late hour, because no one rang the bells in St. George at night. The first bell always rang at 6 in the morning and the last at 6 in the evening. After that, the young altar boy had gone home and the congregation had long since resented the fact that the older man only climbed the tower himself once a week, on Sunday. It was also a complete mystery for what reason he fell. No other traces were found, except for a shattered window in the chapel. His body was found the next day, 7 October, by his altar boy and on 8 October a doctor from Exeter officially recorded the death and issued the death certificate.

Marie Mosten, only 15 years old, was a victim of an accident on a small building site for the construction of a new house on Wilhelm Street. This occurred a little over 2 weeks after the death of the pastor, on 22 October towards the evening. The mayor's daughter was walking home alone and there were no eyewitnesses to the incident. It was only from her cries and the booming thud of the pitch pot that someone came and found the pitiful girl. Again, the doctor from Exeter arrived a day later, so the death certificate was dated 23 October. The builders and the builder McHoon all insisted that no pitch had been used that day. The witnesses did not contradict each other so Baltimore had no doubts about their statements until now. Even then, Constable Baltimore was concerned.

On 31.10. the landlord Mr. Walter Andrews died. The death could be certified here on the same day, as the doctor left on the same day and arrived in St. George in the evening. Unlike the other victims, in this case, the maid Elisabeth Oldren and various guests were present in the tavern when the victim stabbed himself on his wife's knitting needle. According to the statements of those present, he had only wanted to put the knitting away.
A short time later, he complained of feeling unwell, was unhealthily pale around the nose, and left Elly in charge. His wife was already asleep when he went to bed comparatively early that evening. However, due to the valerian drops she had been taking for some time, she did not notice anything else, according to the report. When she woke up the next morning, her husband was lying next to her, pale as death, and despite fever compressing and every effort, he passed away a short time later. The doctor, who arrived late in the afternoon, could only pronounce the husband dead.

On the same day, 31 October, the constable, therefore, sent a despatch with the coachman to Exeter and from there to London to Lord Sunderbrandy.

Unfortunately, no new information was gained.

The dead Mr. Andrews remained their only lead.

When Kyle and Dr. Archer left the police officer's parlor later that evening, Kyle pulled the gleaming pocket watch out of his waistcoat. His walking stick hung with its curved handle in the crook of his arm, swaying slightly to his steps. Then he stopped, turned his gaze sideways, in the direction where the chapel lay, and back to the pocket watch. The mage could feel the piercing gaze on the back of his neck. When Kyle turned his gaze to Dr. Archer and a mischievous grin appeared on his lips, he suspected that the magician was up to something.