When he arrived at the farm and looked through the window, Innerd usually saw the forest, the wall of forest full of ferns, but that day he’d seen some beautiful, fluffy, wild red Foxes. They weren’t in the least afraid; they were just sitting there like Dogs, steadily watching him in a challenging way. Maybe in his small, avaricious heart a hope was born – that here he had chanced upon an easy profit, for such tame, beautiful Foxes could be lured and caught. But how come they’re so trusting and tame? he thought. Perhaps they’re a cross with the ones that live in cages and spend the whole of their short lives turning circles, in a space so small that their noses touch their precious tails. No, it’s not possible. And yet these Foxes were large and beautiful. So that evening, when he saw them again, he thought he’d go after them, to see for himself what exactly was tempting him, what sort of a devil it was. He threw on his leather jacket and off he went. Then he realised that they were expecting him – beautiful, noble Animals with wise faces. ‘Here, boy, here, boy,’ he called to them as if to puppies, but the closer he came, the further they retreated into the forest, still bare and damp at this time of year. He figured it wouldn’t be hard to grab hold of one – they were almost rubbing against his legs. It also crossed his mind that they could be rabid, but in fact it was all the same to him by now. He’d already been inoculated against rabies, when a Dog he’d shot had bit him. He’d had to finish it off with his rifle butt. So even if they were, it didn’t matter. The Foxes were playing a strange game with him, vanishing from sight and then reappearing, two, three of them, and then he thought he could see some beautiful, fluffy Fox Cubs too. And finally, when one of them, the biggest, most handsome Dog Fox, calmly sat down in front of him, Innerd crouched in amazement and began to advance very slowly, legs bent, leaning forwards, with a hand stretched out ahead of him; his fingers pretended to be holding a tasty morsel, which might tempt the Fox, and then he could be made into a fine fur collar. But then suddenly he realised he was tangled in something, his legs were stuck and he couldn’t move after the Fox. As his trouser leg rode up, he felt something cold and metallic on his ankle. His foot was caught. And when it dawned on him that he’d stepped in a snare, he instinctively yanked his leg backwards, but it was too late. By making this movement he passed his own death sentence. The wire tightened and released a primitive hook – a young birch tree, bent and pinned to the ground, suddenly sprang straight, pulling Innerd’s Body upwards with such force that briefly it hung in the air, waving its legs about, but only briefly, for at once it became still. Seconds later, the overburdened birch tree snapped, and that was how Innerd came to rest on the ground, in a dug-out clay pit, where fern shoots were budding beneath the forest litter.
Now Boros was kneeling in that spot.
‘Give me some light, please,’ he said. ‘I think we have some Cleridae larvae here.’
‘Do you believe that wild Animals could kill a Person?’ I asked him, preoccupied with what I had seen in my vision.
‘Oh yes, of course they can. Lions, leopards, bulls, snakes, insects, bacteria, viruses…’
‘What about Animals like Deer?’
‘I’m sure they could find a way.’
So he was on my side.
Unfortunately, my vision did not explain how the Foxes from the farm had got out. Nor how the snare on his leg had been the cause of his death.
‘I found Acarina, Cleridae, wasp larvae and Dermaptera, that’s to say earwigs,’ said Boros over supper, which Oddball had made in my kitchen. ‘And ants of course. Yes, and lots of mould, but they damaged it very badly while removing the corpse. In my view it all proves that the body was found at the stage of butyric fermentation.’
We were eating pasta with blue cheese sauce.
‘You can’t tell,’ said Boros, ‘if it was mould or adipocere, in other words corpse wax.’
‘What did you say? What on earth is corpse wax? How do you know all this?’ asked Oddball with his mouth full of noodles; he had Marysia on his lap.
Boros explained that he used to be a consultant for the Police. And had done some training in taphonomy.
‘Taphonomy?’ I asked. ‘What on earth is that?’
‘It’s the science of how corpses decompose. “Taphos” is the Greek for a grave.’
‘Oh my God,’ sighed Dizzy, as if asking for divine intervention. But of course nothing happened.
‘That would indicate that the body was lying there for some forty to fifty days.’
We quickly did some mental arithmetic. Dizzy was the fastest.
‘So it could have been early March,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That’s only a month after the Commandant’s death.’
For three weeks no one talked of anything else, until the next incident occurred. But now the number of versions of Innerd’s death going around the neighbourhood was vast. Dizzy said that the Police hadn’t looked for him at all after he went missing in March, because his lover had disappeared too. Everyone knew about her, even his wife. And although various acquaintances had thought it odd that they’d gone away so suddenly, they were all convinced that Innerd had his own shady business going on. Nobody wanted to stick their noses into someone else’s affairs. And his wife was reconciled to his disappearance too – what’s more, it probably suited her fine. She had already filed for divorce, but obviously that was no longer necessary. Now she was a widow, and it was better for her that way. Meanwhile, the lover had been found; it turned out they’d broken up in December, and she’d been living with her sister in the United States since Christmas. Boros thought the Police should have issued a wanted notice for Innerd, seeing they had all sorts of suspicions. But maybe the Police knew something that we didn’t.
The next Wednesday I found out at Good News’ shop that apparently a Beast was stalking the neighbourhood, and that it was particularly fond of killing people. And that last year this same Beast had been on the prowl in the Opole region, the only difference being that there it had attacked domestic Animals. Now people in the countryside were scared out of their wits, and everyone was bolting their houses and barns at night.
‘Yes, I’ve nailed up all the holes in my fence,’ said the Gentleman with the Poodle, who this time was buying an elegant waistcoat.
I was pleased to see him. And his Poodle. It sat politely, gazing at me with a wise expression in its eyes. Poodles are more intelligent than people think, though they certainly don’t look it. The same thing applies to many other brave Creatures – we don’t appreciate their intelligence.
We left Good News’ shop together, and stood a while by the Samurai.
‘I remember what you said that time, at the City Guard post. I found it very convincing. I don’t think this is to do with a single killer animal, but animals in general. Perhaps thanks to climatic changes they’ve become aggressive, even deer and hares. And now they’re taking vengeance for everything.’
So said the old gentleman.
Boros left. I drove him to the station in town. His ecology students had never arrived – eventually their vehicle had broken down beyond repair. Maybe there weren’t any students at all. Maybe Boros had other matters to see to here, not just to do with Cucujus haematodes.