When all that remained of her was a vacant sack of skin and clothes, Maggie collapsed in upon herself, mouth open as if hungry for all she had lost.
Her jacket burst open with a sudden flurry of fledgling energy, and a long shrill cry that might have been pain, might have been joy.
INTRODUCTION TO THE BODY IN FAIRY TALES
Jeannine Hall Gailey
The body is a place of violence. Wolf teeth, amputated hands. Cover yourself with a cloak of leaves, a coat of a thousand furs, a paper dress. The dark forest has a code. The witch sometimes dispenses advice, sometimes eats you for dinner, sometimes turns your brother to stone.
You will become a canary in a castle, but you’ll learn plenty of songs. Little girl, watch out for old women and young men. If you don’t stay in your tower you’re bound for trouble. This too is code. Your body is the tower you long to escape, and all the rotted fruit your babies. The bones in the forest your memories. The little birds bring you berries. The pebbles on the trail glow ghostly white.
THE TIN HOUSE
Simon Clark
The young detective looked out of the window. The killing happened right there in front of him. He watched the stoat chase the rabbit across the meadow — the gold-coloured predator appeared tiny in comparison to what seemed almost a behemoth of a rabbit. The stoat ran alongside its fleeing prey before burying its teeth into the rabbit’s neck. From here, in the Chief’s office, the young detective heard the agonised scream of the rabbit as it fell to the ground, kicking and dying.
The Chief studied a computer screen so Mark Newton had ample time to consider this undeniable fact: life and death battles are constantly being fought just a few yards away from us: whether it’s the stoat slaying the rabbit, or a neighbour struggling with terminal illness, or entire armies of bacteria waging war beneath a single fingernail. Life vs. Death. Forever and ever, amen.
After closing the computer file, the Chief took a swallow of coffee, and said, “The Tin House. Heard of it?”
“It’s before my time with this squad, but I remember it from the news. The owner of the Tin House went missing.” Too light on detail, Newton warned himself; he still wanted to impress his new boss, so he dug deeper into his memory. “A man in his seventies by the name of Lord Alfred Kirkwood lived alone at the house. His neighbour found the lights out, a rear door open, and a bowl of tomato soup on the kitchen table. It was still warm.”
“You’ll go far,” grunted the Chief, “or you’ll go insane. There’s only so many details of a case that a policeman should memorise, you know? Particularly if it’s not their case.”
“It’s an old habit from when I was a boy. I loved mysteries. Probably even quite a bit obsessed by them.”
“Well, you better not admit to your colleagues that you have obsessions; they’ll get the wrong idea entirely.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyway, back to business. The Tin House case is unsolved. Lord Kirkwood never turned up, either dead or alive. Seeing as six months have gone by since he vanished, I’m putting the case into deepfreeze. When there’s a legal presumption of death, Kirkwood’s nephew will inherit everything. What I want you to do is take these keys — one will open up the Tin House — I want you to photograph every room. And I mean every room, no matter how small.”
Newton frowned. “Surely we’ve a detailed photographic record of the house already?”
“We have — from six months ago, but it’s a requirement of the police authority’s insurance company that we photograph houses, cars, livestock, every blessed thing that we hand back to owners, just in case the owner decides we’ve damaged their property in some way and hits us with a compensation claim: believe me, it happens. Once you’ve done that, give the keys to Kirkwood’s nephew. Jeremy Kirkwood is meeting you at the house.”
Newton had a suggestion. “I could show the nephew that the house is in good order. After all, don’t we trust him?”
“No. We do not.” The Chief spoke with feeling. “The Kirkwood family is famous for suing people.” He shot Newton a telling look. “I also learned that the first Lord Kirkwood, back in the eighteenth century, made a fortune from the slave trade.”
“Really?”
“Kirkwood shipped thousands of Africans to the Caribbean where he sold them to plantation owners. With the proceeds, he bought twenty thousand acres of land near the coast and built a mansion.”
As a new detective, Newton was conscious that he should question his own superior, to prove he was listening — that and thinking analytically. “The Kirkwood trade in slaves must have been over two hundred years ago. That can’t be relevant to a man going missing six months ago, surely?”
“Can you immediately assess what is relevant to a case?”
“It’s ancient history.”
“Ancient history or not, the Kirkwood family are, at this present time, still living on proceeds earned from selling slaves. All that capital generated from kidnapping African men, women, and babies was invested here in Britain. The man you will meet …” He glanced at his watch. “… forty minutes from now enjoys a luxurious life style as a result of one of the most barbaric commercial enterprises in the history of the human race. Okay, detective … time you went to the Tin House.”
The drive from town to the coast took thirty minutes. Newton went alone. He remembered the route from childhood when his family spent two weeks here every August. The only thing markedly different from back then was the weather. Today, fine snowflakes tumbled from a November sky, and even though it was only mid-afternoon, he drove with the headlights burning into a gloomy landscape.
As a child, Newton had loved his time at the coast; in his imagination, the vast sandy beaches became transformed into mysterious deserts that contained secret castles and hidden treasure. The real mystery occurred there when he was ten years old; his mother asked him to bring her glasses from a drawer. That’s where he discovered a letter from his mother’s sister. The letter clearly revealed that they’d had a major falling out, and the letter closed with a stark PS in capital letters: SO YOU’RE FINALLY GOING TO LEAVE YOUR MARK ON THE WORLD. He interpreted YOUR MARK as referring to him. The comment was clearly designed to hurt his mother. Though he loved solving mysteries, the ten-year-old Mark Newton decided not to delve into this particular one. He had a lurking sense of dread that some family disaster would happen if he ever discovered the truth behind that letter’s bitter postscript.
Satnav efficiently directed him to the Tin House. The building stood on a narrow coastal road with its back to the beach and the sea. There were no other houses within half a mile — so the neighbour who discovered that Lord Kirkwood had vanished, leaving a still warm bowl of soup, must have happened by due to sheer good chance. With no sign of the Lord’s nephew, Newton decided to start work immediately and photograph the building’s interior as his superior had ordered. Photographs would prove that while under the protection of the police, the property hadn’t been burgled or vandalised, so no claims could be lodged by the next of kin.
After parking at the side of the road, which seemed to be one of those quiet, backwater ones, he headed up the drive. A plaque above the front door announced: THE TIN HOUSE.