Faces of Man

9

The foggy morning had cleared up into a cold but sunny day. The coach came to a rattling halt at an intersection in Trafford Park not far from the Royal Place.

"What is it?" hollered Monroe, the door already open and one foot out of the coach.

"There's a block." The coachman's voice was muffled through the thick scarf he had wound around the lower half of his face. "'tis the police."

Monroe exited the coach to observe the traffic block for himself. Half a dozen carriages waited in front of them, the horses uneasy, the coachmen blowing warm breath into their hands against the cold. Up ahead, Monroe could see several figures clad in the blue overcoats of the police force.

"What's going on here?" he asked as he neared the block at a swift pace.

The constable looked him up and down. "None of your business."

"It is my bloody business!" Monroe was agitated, the red rising up his cheeks. "I have business to attend there." He pointed towards Buechner's town house, barely visible through a set of bare trees.

"You have business there?" The constable didn't seem impressed. "We got orders to let nobody through – this also counts for Hounds."

Monroe was nearly over the block, the constables pale with fright, as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You heard about Sir Stuart?" Hopkins didn't really ask. He spoke in a hushed voice, so that the curious coachmen wouldn't hear what he had to say. "We got the case. Now, let us through."

One of the constables nodded and let them pass.

Buechner's town house was the centre of attention. The front door stood wide open and bluecoats swarmed over the place. Several carriages stood waiting in the broad street. Hopkins and Monroe walked up the flight of steps, passing a forlorn boy. They entered the entrance hall unheeded.

"What do you want here?" A constable strode over to them, a questioning look in his eyes.

"I could ask you the same question. Where's Buechner?" answered Monroe.

"Buechner? There was a disturbance this night. The constables out on patrol heard screams from inside this building; they thought the worst, but before they could inform the station about a possible creature attack the servants fled the building. Buechner is missing since. What business do you folks have with him?"

"We were tasked with the murder of Sir Stuart." The sentence echoed up through the vast hall, past the paintings and the stairs until it reached the cupola where it faded out into hushed echoes. The constables ceased their busy working, staring, listening.

"We were tasked with the murder of Sir Stuart," repeated Monroe in a more hushed tone, eyeing the listeners. "Buechner might me involved. I need to talk to him."

The constable stared at him, unsure what to do. "Better you speak with the Inspector. I'll see you up."

Once again Hopkins and Monroe were led up the steps, past the scenic views, the portraits and the still lifes. Once again, they stopped on the final landing and passed through the narrow corridor, entering Buechner's artist workshop.

The place was even more crowded with police than the entrance hall and the street below had been. The painting, on which Buechner had been working on at their last visit – the view on the Royal Palace through the rainy windows – lay toppled over beside the easel. Several shelves were overturned, brushes lying around, vials broken.