Bohemian Rhapsody

moment nine: the death of kings (May 1972).

Old Bill knew every rolling hill and sloping dale in this here parts, Jacob knew. He was the perfect companion for a good walk. The small scruffy black terrier trotted in front of his master, eager for the exercise. The lake district was their part of the world, and right now, as the sun shone down, Jacob felt like a god surveying His creation.

It had been a while since they'd walked along this particular path, months, easily. The winter storms had all but ruined the track with snow and rain, and Jacob knew that there were few in the area who knew of its existence. Well, save for him and Old Bill.

The dog stopped then, looking strangely off into a thicket some yards off. He growled, his hackles rising, and Jacob felt a queer fear come into him, all alone amongst the countryside. "What's that there then?" he asked, ambling back to the dog. "What you fussing about, Bill? We got to be off home now, Missus Jacob is cooking us both dinner, and you know how she gets when we're late."

Still the terrier growled, and it seemed Jacob had no choice, sternly admonishing Bill to "stay there, ya stupid little shit," and clambered down the rise to the extensive thicket of brush and thorns at the bottom. He fumbled in the half light, finally sliding over on the leaf covered ground, the sudden jolt shuddering through his body.

Slipping again in an enfeebled attempt to rise, his boots seemed to gain no purchase on the muddy, turgid soil. Raising one fist in pointless anger, he cursed Bill's name until he was blue in the face, the dog responding by barking loudly, and finally Jacob gave up, his body going limp as he slid onto the ground.

Peering closely at the area between his legs, he saw that his attempts to get up had dislodged some of the leaf matter, and the soil underneath. Indeed, it seemed almost as if he'd wiped something away; revealing something buried close to the surface. Jacob wondered momentarily who the hell would be burying things in the blasted Lake District, of all places, and his curiosity roused, reached down to wipe some of the soil off, his wrinkled and liver-spotted hands still capable of some action, despite his age.

After a few moments he leapt back with a cry, scrambled from the thicket, shuddering, and ran off down the path, Bill yelping at his heels. He didn't stop until he got home, and walked a mile or so to a local campsite with phone, so he could call the police.

Framed by the earth, eyes closed, was the shape of a human face, frozen in a terrible rictus.

The two men flashed their credentials at the police cordon, and were allowed inside the area. Forensic photographers stood in the thicket, angling themselves for different shots, cameras flashing harshly in the twilight. The men nodded in turn to the young police constable who stood by the now partially-exhumed body, and knelt down.

"What have you got here, Constable?" It was the shorter one, older and a tad stockier, with thinning amber hair and alert hazel eyes.

"Local farmer found them on his afternoon walk, Sir," stated the constable, fresh-faced and desperately not trying to show he didn't want to look down.

"Them?" This time it was the other one, taller but younger, with dirty blond hair.

The constable nodded, and pointed to small markers in the ground, shallow pits opening the earth to bear witness. "They dug around the first corpse in a few places in order to exhume it properly. They've found others. They reckon there's about four, probably a family that came up here from Manchester on holiday last year. We'll know properly once we get them all out."

"Last year?", the older one murmured, bending down to snap on a latex glove and poke the exposed dermis with a finger. It held, and sprang back, still supple. The constable tried not to gag. "But the flesh shows no signs of degradation."

The young constable, now distinctly green around the gills, nodded, swallowing. "That's what the forensic people said, Sir. They don't know how to explain it."

"Right," the man agreed, taking out a small rod of wood from his tweed jacket and extending it towards the corpse. He spoke a few words under his breath and there was a small flash of light, white and pure.

The constable cleared his throat. "What's that, Sir?"

"New forensic instrument," his superior assured him, somewhat dismissively, snapping off the latex and stuffing it in a pocket of his tweed jacket with the other object. "Come on, Rod" he said to the other man, and they left, striding out of the thicket.

The constable stood next to the partially-exposed body in the darkening night, and desperately wanted to be somewhere else.

DCI Tennyson of Scotland Yard's Magical Division, of which very few people in the Muggle world actually knew about, emerged from the brush and took a deep breath of the cool night air. Soon after, DI Tanner also emerged, and Tennyson took a moment to get his bearings before walking off, Tanner moving into familiar step next to him.

"No wonder they asked for us, John," mused the younger man, almost enthused. "Did you see the corpse? That can't be natural."

"I'll agree there. This was definitely the work of wizards."

"What was the reading from the tempora finis spell?" His tone was somewhat jerky, as if dreading words he didn't want to hear.

The DCI pulled his wand from the coat pocket, and twirled it in his hand, catching the opposite end, grinning at the other's man familiar wince.

"One day John, you're gonna do that and turn your arm into a fishtank or something accidentally."

John clapped the other man on the back, and stopped, whispering the recall incantation into the wand. A few numbers appeared in front of his eyes, then vanished. "Time of death: last November."

Rod's eyes went wide, and he swore. "Last November? Merlin, that can't be natural", he said again, as if for emphasis.

The two men walked in silence for a while, the elder leading the way.

Rod started gesticulating, as he often did when formulating a theory out loud. "You think it could have been an accident? You know these off-the-road places. And it was last November. A small group of wizards were drinking too much around the Samhain fires, some Muggles disturbed them, the Muggles freaked, the wizards went for their wands - it just all got out of hand."

Tennyson stopped for a while and lit a cigarette, stamping out the match underfoot, taking his time. "Murder's still murder, Rod," he pointed out, plainly, "you know that. Besides, the look on the corpse's face, that was fear. Our murderer wanted to revel in that fear. Then, there was the state of the body itself." John started moving cross-country, at a faster pace, his movements full of purpose as he puffed along.

"What about it?"

"The state of preservation," he called back. "I've only heard about it in a few cases, Rod. It's happens when someone is placed under the Cruciatus Curse, in extremis. The power that floods the victim is intense enough to kill them, and it happens so quickly that the body is pickled, almost, before the pain could cause any damage to the tissue."

Rod was speechless. "Bloody hell."

"Bloody hell's right. We've got some powerful loner who gets off on torturing people to death, probably Muggles."

They were approaching a small hill, and made their way up it, the older man surprisingly spry for his age and smoking habit, Rod lagging behind. He called out, if only that his question might make the other man stop to consider, to allow Rod to catch up. "Do you think they'll be more, Sir?"

John turned, his face bitter with anger, stopping at the crest of the hill. "Oh, I'm sure there will be. I've got a bad feeling about this." He scowled, and put out his cigarette, which didn't make him any happier. "When we get back to the office, I want to go through every unexplained death we've got on record for the past six months. Anything that could be connected with this one, we flag it."

Rod's eyes widened in protest. "But that'll take weeks! Months even!"

"I don't care!" John spat out. "We have a potential serial killer here." He calmed himself, and the two men stood on either side of the empty plastic bag that had been caught in some twigs, dancing in the gentle breeze. "On three, right?"

The two men counted to three, and as one, reached out to the bag, disappearing in a haze of light as the Portkey returned them safe to Scotland Yard.