ONCE BITTEN

THREE : YURIZAN BELTRAN

Constable Wilk had patiently copied in excess of a thousand names from the ledgers of Stratton and Sons, Tailors. Detective Inspector Bitten was optimistic that the lad's work would not be in vain, but it still had not yielded any useful leads.

There appeared to be no apparent crossover between the Stratton list and the assorted friends, family, clients or acquaintances of Mercedes Grabowski, Olivia Nova, or any of the more public victims.

None of the SID personnel held out any great hopes of finding a clear connection. So, it had been a dispiriting month of slow, grinding drudgery.

Such is the nature of investigative work. One understands that the most important resource in the capture of a cunning predator is time. Stormy impatience and furious deadlines may play well to the cheap seats, but they are entirely self-defeating. Bitten's lords and masters appeared to be not unhappy with his efforts.

Just over four weeks after the death Olivia Nova, another victim of bloody ruin had been brought to the attention of the Inspector.

Miss Yurizan Beltran, 22, had been a dancer in a Whitechapel burlesque show. She supplemented her meagre income by seeing personal clients as needs to be required. She had been found dead on the 26th of February, on a freezing evening, and had been referred to the SID for first response.

At about around 9 p.m. when Bitten arrived at the house, with Dr Loup and Constable Wilk in tow.

A handsome man in his twenties answered the Inspector's knock. He appeared to be pale and shaken, and he blinked frequently.

"The police. Thank you for coming."

"I'm Detective Inspector Bitten. This is the home of Yurizan Beltran?"

The man shuddered.

"Yes, I'm John. John Knightley. Please, come in."

Bitten followed the man inside, and found himself in a colourfully eccentric living room. Eyeing a stuff parrot.

"What was your relationship with the deceased?"

Bitten asked the man.

"We work together. Sorry. Worked. At the revue. Several of us live here, Lizzie, Frank, Trevor, and Debbie, as wells as Yurizan and myself. Quite pleasant to share a house with friends who understand the trials of your job."

"I'm sure it is."

Bitten said.

"Who found the body?"

"Trevor. He and Yurizan started to be close. He went to check on her... That would be about twenty minutes ago. He's in the kitchen."

"Is everyone at home?"

"Debbie is out. She has been all evening. She doesn't know yet. My God!"

"Mr Knightley, it would be a great help if you could gather everyone currently in the residence here in the living room. We will need to speak to all of you. First, I need you to show me to Miss Beltran's room."

The man swallowed and nodded.

"Of course. Of course. This way."

He led Bitten and the others down a dark hallway to a particular closed door.

"On the right."

"Thank you."

Bitten said.

"Now, if you would gather your friends?"

Knightley nodded and went back up the hallway.

Bitten opened the door and entered. The well-lit space appeared to be two rooms: a smaller antechamber done up as a small reception room, and a larger bedroom. An archway separated the two. A bead curtain hung in the arch, gathered to one side by a fastener.

It became apparent and clear that the dead woman's favourite colour had been holly-berry red. The walls blanketed in a bright, cheerful red paper, the reception rooms upholstered in red cotton, the bed remained covered by a red quilt, and numerous items of red clothing scattered over every surface.

The room's carpets ash grey, as several other incidental essential facts. Bright cushions in Indian patterns had been place liberally on both bed and the seats, and more sat on the floor.

The cloth covering the small table in the reception room had been done in fire tones, yellows and golds and oranges and against the rest of the room, it drew the eye like a flickering candle.

On it stood an open bottle of wine, a part-filled glass, a plate bearing a small piece of cheese and a half-eaten, browned apple slice, and two ashtrays, both betraying signs of heavy use.

Albeit one of the reception-room seats had been overturned, the disarray of her clothes in the rooms appeared to be systematic, rather than evidence of some frantic search.

The body had been left on the bed. While the Inspector checked around the area, Dr Loup made a beeline for it, clucking to himself.

Despite the rooms' colour scheme, the dead woman's blood remained visible. It splattered the walls and floor of the bedroom, and both the bead curtains and the antechamber floor displayed streaks and droplets.

The bedroom held a well-lit vanity piled with a wide selection of cosmetics as well as three free-standing mirrors and at least four hairbrushes of various sizes and, presumably, purposes.

A closet had been built into one wall, with one door open. The clothes within arranged no more carefully than in the main room had been. The window bay sat over a small love seat, inevitably red, with more of the bright Indian cushions.

The red velvet curtains held partly open, the windows just light-grey panes of condensation, apart from one clean corner.

Dr Loup cleared his throat pointedly.

The Inspector turned to him.

"Yes, Loup?"

"My patient had told me a number of interesting things, Inspector."

By the door, Wilk shuffled uncomfortably.

"Curious phrasing."

Bitten said.

"First, please observe her neck. You will see that, although blood-streaked, it is unmarked."

The Inspector felt his eyebrows raise.

"Oh?"

"Yes. It looks like a gut incision, a knife stuck in near the navel and ripped upwards. Her mouth is quite bruised, and I would suggest that the attacker held her silent before the fatal strike, and kept that way while she died. One she had died, the wound showed to be torn open farther, in a quite amateur way. Several of her internal organs slashed at in a way that just won't do, and her lungs crudely severed and simply pushed down amongst her entrails. Her breasts also been removed in a most haphazard manner and squashed into the body cavity, and her eyes and ears are quite ruined. Most unimpressive."

"No words cut into the body?"

"None that are visible to my examinations so far."

"Any idea of how long she has been dead?"

Loup shrugged.

"Less than three hours."

"Inspector."

Wilk said from the antechamber.

"It's been at least an hour, sir"

"And why do you say that Constable Wilk?"

"The apple is browned, sir. Although a cut apple will start to tarnish quick, it takes quite some time to turn a deep brown."

ii

Inspector Bitten nodded.

"Well done, Wilk. The fallen chair does make it look like she had been interrupted at her dinner, but we can't be certain of that. She perhaps left the apple there carelessly for some time. Tidiness is not one of her prime virtues. Even if it's not definite, though, it is an indicative evidence. Well done."

"Thank you, sir."

Wilk said.

"Dr Loup, how acquainted are you with the victims from before our first meeting?"

The doctor looked up thoughtfully from the corpse's gaping abdomen.

"Fairly familiar."

The doctor said.

"If you'll forgive me a spot of circumlocution, I personally examined two of the patients concerned, and read over the reports and notes regarding the others."

"And how do you feel about the late Miss Beltran's demise?"

"I doubt that my current patient is the result of our quarry's craft. She appears to be the product of significantly less skill and precision. It is not impossible to counterfeit a lack of ability, but as yet not seen any prior indication of an attempt on his part to disguise his work. He is quite the artist, and so far, has taken overt delight in demonstrating that fact. If he is regressing towards common butchery, that would be quite the disappointment."

"Disappointment, you say?"

"A keen one."

Dr Loup asserted.

"Ham-handed flesh butchers are a ha'penny a dozen."

"Be that as it may, I think I agree with you. This murder does not give me the feel of the killer we are hunting. Pray continue your forensic examinations, Doctor. If the killer is sloppy, there may well be some useful evidence to be found in the body or in the room. Wilk and I will talk to the house's residents in case something useful arises."

The Inspector made its way back along the dark hall to the room they'd first entered. In addition to the man who'd let them in, John Knightley, three other people sat around, two men and a woman. All young, attractive, and unhappy.

After introducing himself and Wilk again, Bitten addressed the group.

"I'm grateful for you forbearance, lady and gentlemen. If there is any hope of catching the murderer, we need to know whatever details you can tell us. Anything that stands out as uncommon in the last few weeks might prove useful. It's always best to speak to people one at a time, so if there's somewhere I might interview you individually?"

"The kitchen."

Knightley suggested.

The others nodded with various degrees of enthusiasm.

"Then, Mr Knightley, perhaps you will show me the way? Constable Wilk will stay here, to provide assistance as needed."

The two other male residents shared a look at that, but said nothing.

"Of course, sir."

Wilk said.

Knightley clambered to his feet and led the way to a door to the rear of the room. It opened onto a few feet of hallway and then the kitchen, a nice sized affair with a tile floors and functional fittings. A big, battered wooden table stood near the far wall, surrounded with serviceable wooden chairs.

A stark contrast to the showy decoration of the living room.

Bitten seated himself facing the door and waved the other man to a seat opposite.

"What can you tell me about Miss Beltran?"

"What can I tell you about anyone, Detective Inspector? A life is a dense, complex thing, full of whirling parts and hidden currents and façades and secret machineries. Minds are layered and folded and impenetrable to their users, perhaps even especially to them. Yurizan was a lively, happy-go-lucky girl. She loved the mechanics of life, walking on wet grass, eating sweetmeats, getting tipsy on wine and, above all, dancing."

He paused and smiled at the memory, before continuing.

"So many people are obsessed with talking about themselves, or other people, or the daily events around them, and it's so boring I could weep. She was different. She always talked about ideas, often strange and sparkling ones. How sounds had a texture, and whether that could guide the feet without the intervention of the ears. The injustices of life infuriated her, and she'd champion any underdog in a heartbeat. She arrived three years ago, and she became like all your favourite cousins rolled into one. The world is a darker and sadder place without her.

"You mentioned she had grown close to one of your housemates."

"That's right, Trevor Marshall. He joined us a year ago, and almost straight away they had a spark between them. The last few months they've been heating up. I'm not sure what occasioned this change. I was glad for her. She had a tendency to enter into relationships she later regretted. That underdog thing again, I suppose, Trevor, at least, is one of us. It usually proves hard to understand our lives from the outside. Too outside of context for regular folks, I suppose."

"Any enemies?"

"She rubbed some people up the wrong way. Extraordinary folks always do. But enemies? No. I can't imagine anyone would want to harm her. Sometimes one of her private clients got a little possessive, but she would never be the type to tie herself to a marriage, and she had a gift for defusing that sort of situation. Showing the freedom of her adventurousness. She deserved better than this miserable century has to offer."

"I see. And can you think of any bizarre occurrences in the last week or so?"

"Lizzie told me this morning that one of the others had mentioned a large dog hanging around outside, but I wasn't paying attention. I was half-asleep. Oh, Lord! That means a dog-owner doesn't it. Nobody would let a huge dog wander around this part of London. The murderer cleaned the condensation from the corner of her window to spy on Yurizan. No! If, I'd said something..."

"Please compose yourself, Mr Knightley."

Bitten said.

"That's not likely."

John Knightley appeared to be uncertain.

"It's winter, Mr Knightley. Window condensation forms on the warm side of the glass, not the cold side. The condensation cannot be removed from the outside."

iii

"Well, if you're quite sure..."

"Quite sure."

Inspector Bitten insisted.

"If any window happened to be wiped clean, it would be done from the inside. I think that's all for now, sir. If you would be so good as to show Mr Marshall through."

Knightley stood.

"Of course."

He left and, a few moments later, Trevor Marshall took his seat.

"I understand you found Miss Beltran."

Bitten said.

Marshall nodded slowly. His eyes looked somewhat glazed.

"Yes. I...I don't...I went to check on Yurizan, knocked on her door. She didn't answer. I knew she would be in there. I knocked again, warned her I was coming in, and... Then I ran towards the kitchen, screaming. John appeared, and Frank and Debbie weren't far behind. I babbled, and I could barely see anything but, inside me, everything felt like ice. It was like I remained outside myself, watching myself go crazy without me. Someone poured me a brandy. Then John moved me to the lounge."

"You became close?"

"Yes. Yurizan...dazzled me. Shining and fierce. I felt like a moth, drawn to her flame. Now she is extinguished, and I am burned beyond recovery."

He sank his head into his hands, sobbing quietly. Eventually, he pulled himself back up into a loose slump.

"You kept separate rooms?"

Bitten asked.

"Very much. I'd be delighted to share, but I understood that she needed a space of her own. A den. A place to be untroubled, to switch off, remained part of she wanted to be."

"You said you went to check on Miss Beltran. Why did you do that?"

"A silly thing. I remained in my room, reading. I kept my door open. I only close it if I don't want to be bothered. I heard something and looked up see a man walk past. I didn't get a look at his face, the hall is dark, and my candles don't reach that far, and I didn't recognize the build or gait. He seemed to be wearing a navy-blue shirt with a teal cravat and a dark-charcoal jacket and trousers. I think I caught a glimpse of substantial moustaches. Something about him made me wary and, after a moment, I decided to make sure Yurizan...Yurizan was all right."

"Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt her?"

"No. No enemies, not even rivals, not ones with animosity towards. I've been thinking and thinking. One of her..."

His face twisted for a moment.

"...clients, I suppose. Some lunatic, who became obsessed with her and wasn't able to accept her as she was."

He sagged further, collapsing in on himself.

"Some bloody-handed i***t who destroyed the purest thing I ever knew ."

He broke down again.

"Thank you, Mr Marshall. That will be all for now. Perhaps you could ask Frank to come in?"

The man nodded and, after a moment, stumbled.

The fellow who replaced him was slender to the point of gauntness, with hollow cheeks and big, luminous eyes.

"My name is Frank Moruzzi."

The man announced in an oddly resonant voice.

"What can you tell me about Miss Beltran?"

The Inspector asked.

"She shone, Inspector. I pity you that you did not meet her in life. She was attractive, of course, possibly even beautiful from certain angles, but it was her spirit that transformed her beyond description. Many women hated her on sight, but I'm sure you expected that. Women are trained by their parents to loathe any woman more attractive than they, to resent any who won more freedoms than they, to scorn any less lovely than they. They are there gender's gaolers. Yurizan happened to be one of those rare people who see their training, and reject it utterly. Perhaps it is inevitable someone silenced her. Men, however, adored her. Even the most dedicated of bachelors could not fail to be charmed by her transcendence."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?"

"No. Not like this. She was not prominent enough to threaten our lords and masters. In ten years perhaps she would gather enough of an audience to be an irritation, but not now. No man of her acquaintance would want her diminished, let alone dead. There are plenty of woman who would like her diminished, and I'm sure there are some who will celebrate her loss, but to the extent of coming to her room and leaving her in ruins? No."

"Did you become aware of any odd occurrences in the last week or two?"

Moruzzi considered that for a long moment.

"No, Inspector. Nothing I can think of."

"Thank you for your help. Would you ask Lizzie to come in for a moment?"

"Naturally."

The man rose and for a moment his face hardened into a pitiless stone mask.

"Catch this evil bastard for us, Inspector. We are trusting you with our vengeance."

The fourth of the house's inhabitants was a slight woman in her late teens or early twenties with a cloud of dark, wavy hair and fiery eyes.

"I am Lizzie Durrant."

She announced as she sat, her voice daring the Inspector to challenge her.

He gave her a professionally anodyne nod.

"What can you tell me about Miss Beltran, Miss Durrant?"

"I didn't like her."

The woman declared.

"I didn't hate her. I didn't want her dead. She just wasn't my type of person."

"Why do you think that was?"

"She lived in the clouds, in a bubble of unworldly idealism, as she was too good to get her heels dirty with the rest of us. Even on her back for some mark, she somehow skipped over reality. It was insufferable."

"Do you know of anyone who would want to kill her?"

"No. She didn't matter enough to kill."

Miss Durrant paused, evaluating her words.

"I suppose someone disagreed with that assessment. No idea whom, though."

"Did anyone mention anything unusual or strange activities in the last fortnight?"

"No."

"Very well. Thank for your time, Miss Durrant. Shall we return to the others?"

The woman shrugged and let Bitten usher her out of the kitchen and back into living room.

Once she sat back with her friends, the Inspector beckoned Wilk over to his side, and turned to his side, and turned to face the residents.

"I'm sure we'd all prefer it if the murderer would be so good as to stand up, to permit and orderly arrest."

The room filled with silence and then Trevor Marshall stood up. All the others gasped.

"Thank you, Mr Marshall."

"What's going on, Inspector?"

Knightley demanded.

"Mr Marshall murdered Yurizan Beltran."

"Are you mad?"

Lizzie Durrant this time.

"He worshipped the ground she walked on."

The Inspector held up his hands to calm the residents.

"Let me explain. The hallway is very dark. Trevor Marshall was in a lit space looking out onto it, yet still managed to differentiate subtle shades of dark colours such as navy, charcoal, and teal with confidence? It is, at best, extraordinarily unlikely. The only reason for Mr Marshall to lie about an intruder is to attempt to deflect suspicion."

They all looked at Trevor Marshall.

Tears ran down his face.

"I never meant to kill her. But I just saw red. I had been driven by jealousy at Yurizan's refusal to stop taking paid lovers."