Creatures of the Chase - Yusuf. L. M. Ollie
as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Yakinchuk slumped back into his seat and stared at the papers. He swallowed hard as he remembered what Maggie had said - the curse and the evil that circles it, generation after generation.
‘In for a penny; in for a pound,’ he whispered as he reached for the bundle and opened it.
The Curse of Buriot
Translated from the Latin
St. John - Chapter 8, Verse 44
Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him.
*********
Now I must speak while there is yet time. They seek me even as I write. I pray to God that He may protect me … and us all. Peter the Anchorite
Two brothers they were, abandoned on the shores of Malin Head, far to the north. No one knew from whence they came, but their names were Rudan and Sabail. Naked they were found upon the rocky stretch where ‘tis said an old woman took pity on them and raised them alone ‘til they were old enough to murder her and escape. By degrees they acquired great wealth in jewels, fine clothes, powerful steeds, so that by the time they arrived here, in this land, they were rich beyond measure.
They traded in souls, or so it was said. Always their prey was the daughters of the wealthy who would pay dearly to reclaim their children, held in thrall.
And so it was that Rudan captured by stealth the Princess Cathleen, daughter of Buriot, Chief amongst men. For her freedom, the brothers demanded the land upon which they stood to the measure, one hundred leagues. Buriot refused, then made ready for war. High in a tower was Cathleen kept, unseen by all. From there she watched the approach of her father’s army ‘til Rudan pulled her from that height to stand barefooted before her father, heavy with the child Rudan forced on her.
The sight of his beloved daughter thus so cruelly used, broke Buriot’s heart. Blood poured from his mouth as he cursed Rudan and Sabail to their faces, calling upon the one true God to avenge his daughter’s fate.
No child of their line would be conceived in love nor would they find love in a father’s arms. Hatred and deceit shall be the crust upon which each generation gnaws, son against father, father against son. From this viper’s nest will pour cold, deliberate poison, which will manifest itself as brother will turn on brother, blood against blood, in jealous hate, usurping the other’s place even unto the bridal bed.
Sabail raised his hand and at its sight Buriot screamed, then fell from his horse, dead. His army fled in terror.
From that time was born the legend of the Devil’s line - the Develin - which to this day, rules this ancient land.
‘The Devil’s line,’ Yakinchuk whispered.
‘I was told you were here. What the hell are you doing Vic?’ Neil Perry dropped a folder on the table in front of Yakinchuk then sat down opposite. Yakinchuk stared at him as if in a trance. Perry waved a hand right in front of his face. ‘Hello, anyone home?’
‘What do you want Perry?’
‘The Lyburn case report would be nice for starters. Where the hell have you been all morning and what the hell is this shit?’ He pushed the folder towards Yakinchuk. ‘It’s the accident report you ordered from Records; it’s not a homicide which, unless I am mistaken, is what you usually do.’
Yakinchuk grabbed the folder, opened it and began to read, scanning the pages rapidly. ‘Sarah Winthrope Churchill,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘What?’
‘This wasn’t an accident Neil; it was murder made to look like an accident.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I believe that one of the victims is not only alive and well, but living in Ireland.’
Quickly Yakinchuk stuffed Maggie’s pages into the folder. ‘Got to go,’ he announced as he jumped to his feet. ‘You’ll have to take care of the Lyburn case report yourself Neil. You’ve got all the facts.’
‘Where the hell are you going?’ Perry shouted, obviously not one bit amused.
‘I’m going to solve a murder.’
*****
This time Yakinchuk drove his car up and out of the station parking lot, around the corner then stopped in the shade offered by a line of oak trees. It was three in the afternoon. He sat reading the police report in detail. The facts of the case were simple and straightforward.
The vehicle – a 1972 Ford Mustang, was owned by David Michael Kendall; one of the victims. Late on New Year’s Eve 1979 he and a passenger were driving west along Highway Five when it was presumed that the driver applied his brakes rounding a tight bend in the road. The brakes either failed or, more likely partly failed sending the car into a slid. The driver lost control of the vehicle and it plunged over the embankment and into a grove of trees. The vehicle caught fire. By the time ambulance and emergency services arrived, the vehicle was totally gutted and the bodies inside burned beyond recognition. One of the investigators described the scene as “horrific”.
Yakinchuk pulled himself free of the report and sat staring out the window at a beautiful sunny summer afternoon; an afternoon Kendall would not live to see, let alone enjoy. He frowned.
Why do you do that? Why do you always think like that whenever you’re faced with a wrongful death?
Angry at himself, he returned to the report determined to be the cold, deliberate, professional homicide detective he had been trained to be.
Eyewitnesses confirmed that both Kendall and Churchill were seen at the New Year’s Eve Ball at the Fenshaw; that they left before midnight in the Mustang – the valet remembered Kendall clearly because he didn’t tip him. According to her flatmates, Miss Churchill did not return home that night or any other. Kendall’s former flatmate confirmed that the Mustang’s brakes were “shot” and that he knew for a fact that Kendall did not have much in the way of money and if he did, he wouldn’t have spent it fixing the brakes.
Yakinchuk leaned back in his seat. ‘If Kendall didn’t have the money to fix the car, how come he had the money to buy two tickets to the Ball?’
He flipped through the pages, adding small bits of information like the fact that the road was described as “greasy” and poorly lit. That identification of Sarah Churchill’s body was based on the discovery of her wrist watch on the floor of the vehicle plus scorched and tattered fragments of a shawl she had worn that evening; traces which had somehow been thrown from the car perhaps at the moment of impact. It was Sarah’s roommate – a Janet Lanskey, who had identified the shawl and the watch.
Yakinchuk searched the report for Sarah Churchill’s last known address. He smiled as he started the car. ‘Number twelve Bacon Street; just off campus,’ he muttered as he eased into the traffic. ‘Janet Lanskey, we need to talk.’
4
The house was old, almost derelict and so was the neighbourhood. ‘Was this all Sarah could afford?’ Yakinchuk thought to himself as he knocked on the front door. It was answered by a young woman, perhaps twenty-five years old. She was dressed in a baggy pair of sweat pants and an equally baggy tee-shirt. The costume was cunningly crafted to hide the fact that she was grossly overweight. It failed miserably.
‘Are you Janet Lanskey,’ he asked. She nodded.