3. Dr. MacDugon

Dr. Linda MacDugon arrived and knelt by the corpse. The district coroner said nothing, just nodded to Brampton and ignored Kathy. After a few moments she rose.

“Single stab to the chest with that weapon you’ve got in the evidence bag Sandy,” she said. “The bang on her lip is where she fell and hit her face on the coffee table. I’ll do some swabbing and sampling to confirm it but that’s what it looks like.” Dr. MacDugon turned back to the woman lying on the floor and began writing her own notes. Kathy frowned. Would a single blow wreak so much havoc on a woman’s breast? She looked again at the dagger in the baggie and shuddered.

“The angle of the blade will help tell if the attacker was taller or shorter,” Brampton said and Linda nodded once thinking, tell me something I don’t know. She turned to Kathy.

“Sorry but we’ll need your blouse,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “There’s probably blood on your bra, so give me that, too,” she strode out of the room, saying over her shoulder, “When I heard it was you, I figured this would happen.” She spoke matter-of-factly, but Kathy bristled anyway. “So I came prepared. I haven’t got a spare coverall but I’ve got a T-shirt and sweater you can change into.”

Kathy groaned. She liked the blouse she was wearing and feared she might never see it again. The thought of wearing one of MacDugon’s t-shirts without a bra did not appeal either. The coroner was annoyingly petite.

The forensics crew arrived and Kathy and Brampton got out of their way. The doctor returned and handed her a large evidence bag, a small blue t-shirt, and a suspiciously flouncy pink sweater. In the bathroom at the end of the hall, Kathy carefully removed her blouse and bra and stuffed them into the bag, but didn’t seal it. Brampton would do that and record the details. She struggled into the T-shirt, tugged it down over her breasts and frowned at her reflection. Adding the cardigan helped a little, but she felt ridiculous and also guilty for caring what she looked like at a time like this. She fingered the frills on the cardigan. She’d never seen Linda MacDugon wear anything like this. She tugged at the frilly edges, trying to make them meet over her bosom, then sighed and stepped back into the hall.

MacDugon nodded to one of her guys to take the evidence bag from Kathy. She was watching the team in their billowing suits and booties meticulously examine the living room. Kathy touched her arm to get her attention. “I’ll bring the sweater and t-shirt to the station later today.” It would take her 20 minutes to walk home and change, about 19 minutes longer than she wanted to be seen in that get-up. MacDugon gave her a nod and a smile, then waved her away.

As she walked down the stone steps to the path, Kathy thought what happened here? And why? Who was the young woman going down her path for the last time, a sad, small bundle on a metal gurney, and what had she been trying to say with her dying words and those pleading eyes?

4. History of The Dagger

Forest of Dean, England, 1560 AD

A cool morning fog spun around his feet as the young woodcutter strode through the forest, looking for a perfect oak log to take back to his father, the carpenter, for a new table. The cry of a grey wolf made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was the sound they made when they had a fresh kill.

A hundred yards ahead, the forest floor fell away to his right. The howl came again and he saw at the bottom of the slope a big grey wolf standing over a man who was lying very still. One arm was bent beneath him and appeared broken. A gash in his forehead oozed blood, and the wolf lowered his head to lick at the trickle.

When Jamison saw the figure move, he started down the hill. The wolf spun to face him, growled and bared its sharp teeth. Jamison pulled the axe from his belt, raised it high and hurled it as the wolf leapt. The cold iron embedded itself in the wolf’s head and it fell to the ground.

He ran to the creature, knife in hand, and slit its throat. The wolf died instantly and Jamison felt a pang of regret. He looked at the injured man and recognized the face. It was the son of the man who owned these woods, his lord.

Jamison took off his wool jacket and tossed it far from the bloody scene. It was new and precious to him. He tore a sleeve from his linen shirt, easily done as it was old and thin, and used it to bind the head wound. He grasped the rough handle of his axe and pulled, ignoring the sickening sound of blade leaving flesh, then set to work cutting down five small trees and trimming them into poles.

He separated his coarse braided belt into strands to bind the poles to form a litter and used one piece to secure the broken arm to the youth’s body. He skinned the wolf and laid its thick pelt on the litter, then laid the young noble on the pelt. The boy groaned and grew paler still.

It was a two-mile walk to the lord’s manor house and the litter was heavy, but Jamison, the woodcutter, was strong.

As he neared the house he saw an old man cutting weeds and shouted for help. The old man ran to him, saw what he was dragging and raced to the house. He returned with four strong men to lift the litter onto their shoulders and carry the unconscious lord’s son home.

When the gardener heard Jamison’s story he touched his shoulder. “You will be rewarded, boy. Go home, now,” then he turned and made his way up the half-trimmed path.

Jamison stared at his back, then shrugged and turned wearily back to the forest. What had he expected?

It was late when he arrived home, but he had marked a fine straight oak with his axe and retrieved his wool jacket.

***

Jamison was eating breakfast the next day with his mother and father when a servant from the manor came to their door and asked for him by name. He pushed back his stool on the rough stone floor and went to speak to the man.

“I am Jamison,” he said. “I killed the wolf that attacked the lord’s son. It attacked me, too,” he said defensively. Every animal in the woods belonged to the lord.

The servant just smiled and told the astonished family that Jamison was summoned to the manor for an audience with the lord.

***

The owner of the forest and all the lands around their cottage was sitting in a high carved chair. Beside him sat his son wearing a linen bandage on his head and a velvet sling on his arm. He rose and came to Jamison, unfastening his belt as he came. He held out the fine leather belt.

“Thank you for saving my life. The least I can do is replace your belt. Take this, not a gift but return of a favour.”

Jamison had never seen a belt so beautiful, fine leather embossed with roses and vines and finished with a pewter buckle.

The lord stayed seated, but he was smiling. “I thank you for saving my son who is more precious to me than gold. Your father raised you well and also deserves my thanks. I will grant him ownership of the cottage in which you live and of all the lands you can see from your door. You and your descendants shall own this forever, tax-free.”

He drew a breath. “You will inherit the land, boy, but for now take this dagger as a token. It was brought from the Holy Land by my great-grandfather. It is a strange weapon, beautiful and powerful. The custom in the land where it was found is for a first-born son to offer a dagger to the woman of his choice. If she accepts it, she accepts the man and they will prick their palms and mingle their blood to seal their troth.”

The lord drew from his robe a hammered silver case, hinged and heavy and handed it to the speechless boy

The lord’s son clapped Jamison on the back. “We have many such stories in this family, and I’ll bet you have stories for me. Our men found the wolf and marveled at your quickness and strength. If you wish to learn more about such things, you must visit me here. My grandfather taught me much about foreign customs.” He raised his injured arm and flinched. “And perhaps you can teach me to wield an axe.”