The park had seen better days. Weeds surrounded the trees and benches, the grass was overgrown, discarded bottles and papers were strewn about. The children who used the park were almost equally ragged, but they had a ball to kick and friends to play with so they were content with their lot.

They had split into teams, and despite the poor quality of the pitch and the ball, they struggled ferociously for possession. Elbows were thrown, shins were kicked, and knees were scraped, but the warriors battled on. Their shouts rang out raucously until one boy kicked the ball particularly hard, sending it into the high weeds.

"Go on, you get it, Tompkins," the other boys insisted.

Ten-year-old Peter Tompkins, who had kicked it so hard, stomped over to the area where the ball had disappeared, waving the weeds aside as he searched.

"Hurry up," the others shouted, eager to return to their game.

Finally Peter emerged but without the ball, his face white as a sheet.

"Where is it?" demanded one of the other boys, but it was apparent something was wrong.

Peter's whole body was shaking as he pointed back toward the weeds.

"What?" asked the oldest one, approaching cautiously.

"I… I think he's dead…"

Matthew Lawson, Charlie Davis and Bill Hobart were already on site when Lucien Blake arrived at the scene. He noted the huddle of young boys off to the side, a few adults who seemed to be parents hovering over them. Charlie and Bill were questioning the children.

Lucien removed his hat and looked down at the corpse. "What do we have?" he asked Matthew.

"Middle-aged man, possibly a vagrant, looks like he's been here for a while. ID says his name is Brian Crenshaw. Boy found him here when he was chasing after a ball."

"Let's have a look, shall we?" said Lucien.

The body was face down with ants crawling over the exposed skin.

Gently, Lucien brushed away the insects and closed the man's vacant eyes. He ran his hands over the body, paying particular attention to the neck and skull, but found nothing amiss.

"Anything?" Matthew wanted to know.

"Not yet."

"Natural causes, you think?" asked Matthew. "I could use a quiet week."

"Too soon to tell," said Lucien. Carefully he rolled the body over, and the cause of death became clear. "Bloody hell. So much for your quiet week, I'm afraid."

They both stared at the gaping wound in the lower abdomen, an ornate ceremonial dagger still protruding from it.

Alice Harvey and the body of Brian Crenshaw were already waiting in the morgue when Lucien arrived. He greeted his fellow doctor while donning a lab coat.

As usual, Alice got straight to business. "Do we need to wait for the family to identify him?"

"They're still trying to locate a family member," Lucien explained. "Mr. Crenshaw appears to have been a vagrant. No next of kin yet. We don't even know if he's from Ballarat. We can start the visual examination and draw blood while we're waiting to hear about family."

"The cause of death seems to be apparent," said Alice. "The descending aorta has been severed, causing catastrophic blood loss."

"Seppuku," Lucien said softly. "Also known as hara-kiri."

"Ritual suicide?"

"Or at least made to look that way." He gestured toward the man's midsection. "You'll notice the single blade stroke across the abdomen, left to right. And the dagger appears to be a tanto, the type of ceremonial blade used by samurai."

"Where would a vagrant get such a thing?" Alice wondered.

"That's a very good question. Those daggers are quite valuable to collectors. I suppose he could have brought it back as a war souvenir."

Alice sniffed. "The man is malnourished. Look at his hair and fingernails. Why would he keep a souvenir that could have fed him for weeks?"

Lucien did not respond. He knew the effects the war had inflicted on many men, himself included. Logic did not always come into play for the survivors.

Between them they removed Mr. Crenshaw's shirt completely and examined his chest. "No bruising or suspicious marks on the rest of the torso," Alice noted. "Let's look at his back."

Gently they rolled him toward Lucien. Alice saw it first and gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "My word!"

The whole of the dead man's back was crisscrossed with deep, aging scars.

When Lucien saw it, all colour drained from his face. He grasped the edge of the table to keep himself upright.

Reaching a hand to him, Alice cried, "Lucien, are you all right?"

His heart was racing, and he found himself gulping for air. He was barely aware when Alice moved a chair behind him and eased him down onto it. Taking an uncharacteristic liberty, she reached into his pocket, pulled out his flask, and thrust it toward him.

His hands were shaking so badly he had to use both of them to guide the flask to his mouth. The burn of the whiskey helped him anchor himself in the here and now. When the room had come back into focus, he looked up at Alice's worried face.

"Thank you. I do apologize. It's been a while."

She stared at him. "You've seen something like this before?"

"All too often. In Changi prisoner of war camp it was practically the uniform of the day."

"You…" Alice began, but then closed her mouth, thinking better of what she'd been about to ask. "I see."

"Yes." Lucien cleared his throat, trying to force away the huskiness in his voice. "Well, then, I'd better tell the Chief Superintendent to contact the Army in hopes of finding the family. They should have a record of our Mr. Crenshaw."

As if to turn off the memories, Lucien rolled the body back over and took a closer look at the incision that had clearly killed the man. After studying it carefully, he used a cloth to pick up the dagger and examined the blade as well. Then he looked at the man's hands.

"He was right handed. You can see the writing callus on the middle finger."

"Yes, and so?"

Lucien pointed to the wound. "Look at the angle of entry. It would have been almost impossible for him to manage that with his right hand. You see?"

He used the dagger to try to approximate the necessary movement on himself, then gestured again toward the wound on Mr. Crenshaw.

Alice peered at it closely. "I concur. It seems someone else killed Mr. Crenshaw and took quite some pains to make it look like suicide." She paused. "Why would someone go to such lengths for a vagrant?"

"Perhaps whoever did this saw Mr. Crenshaw as something more than just a vagrant?" Lucien suggested.

"What then?"

"I don't know. A threat of some kind?"

When Lucien walked into the Ballarat Police Station his pallor caused a couple of people to stare at him, including Matthew Lawson. He was about to accuse his police surgeon of being drunk, but then realized that strong drink was not the cause.

"Doctor?" he said, inviting Blake to explain.

Instead Lucien handed him a folder. "The preliminary autopsy. Mr. Crenshaw died last night, probably between 10 and 1 A.M. Cause of death: catastrophic blood loss."

"Suicide then?" asked Matthew.

"My guess is murder." Lucien tapped the report. "Angle of entry is wrong for it to be self-inflicted. Someone did this to him. Have you located the next of kin?"

"Apparently he walked out on his family several months ago. Mental issues. Army says he was a POW at Changi Prison for three years."

Lucian sat down abruptly, his eyes closing and a nervous hand going to the back of his head.

"Is that where you…?"

He nodded sharply.

"You didn't know him there?"

"I probably met him," Lucien admitted. "It's been a while and there were a lot of prisoners."

"Anyway, the wife should be by later this afternoon to identify the body. Doctor Harvey can see to her."

"No!" Lucien said sharply. He took a deep breath and modulated his voice. "Sorry, Matthew. I want to be there."

"I'm not sure you should be anywhere near this case," Matthew said. "There's no way you can be impartial if you identify with the victim."

"I do identify with the victim," Lucien admitted. "And that's why I have to find the killer, Matthew. I don't remember the man. The least I can do is find out what happened to him."

The chief superintendent narrowed his eyes. "All right, but you're on a short leash. If I see you spinning out of control on this one, I'll send you home. Understood?"

"Understood. Thank you, Matthew." He stood and tugged his waistcoat into place. "I don't suppose there were any fingerprints on the dagger?"

"None. Not even the victim's."

"So either the killer was interrupted before he could finish framing it as a suicide or …"

Matthew finished the sentence. "Or he didn't think anyone would bother investigating, the victim being a vagrant and all."

"It might be worth checking if anyone else was near the park around the time of death," said Lucien. "In case he was interrupted."

"I'll send a couple men out there tonight at the same time, see who uses the park that late at night."

"Dog walkers. People coming home from a late night shift. Young couples," Lucien suggested.

"We'll check it out tonight. Now, Mrs. Crenshaw is due at the morgue on the hour. If you want to be there you should probably head over."

"Right you are."

Alice waited with Lucien for the victim's wife to arrive.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Alice asked. "I can always…"

Lucien shook her off just as the door opened. "Mrs. Crenshaw, I'm Doctor Blake and this is Doctor Harvey. I'm so sorry to put you through this. Just let us know when you're ready to proceed."

Jane Crenshaw was in her late forties, her clothing careworn but neat, her grey hair topped with a once-stylish hat. Clearly, she was a woman who had been through difficult times, and now faced one of the most difficult of all. "Thank you, Doctor," she said in a weary voice. "Let's just get it over, please."

Gently Alice lifted the sheet to uncover the face. Mrs. Crenshaw took one look and had to turn away. "Yes, that's Brian. At least now I know what's become of him. He's finally at peace."

Lucien put a comforting arm around the woman's shoulder. "I know how hard this is for you, Mrs. Crenshaw. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"All right."

"When did you last see Brian?"

"It was about three months ago, I think. He'd been disappearing for a few days at a time before that, but he always came back. This time was different. He didn't seem in his right mind. I tried to convince him to see someone but he always refused to talk about that time. The war, you know?"

"Yes, I know," Lucien said softly. "Brian was in a prison camp, wasn't he?"

"He was. I don't even know where, though. He wouldn't tell me."

"It was Changi Prison in Singapore," Lucien told her. "You're probably better off not knowing any more about it."

"How do you know where he was?"

"I was there. I was a prisoner as well. I'm sorry to say that I don't really recall Brian, but there were a lot of prisoners being moved in and out all the time."

"But you… You aren't like Brian."

"Not now, no," he told her. "It took a very long time, and I still have moments when… Well, when it becomes overwhelming. You never really get over something like that, Mrs. Crawford."

She nodded, and walked over to her husband. "At least he's not suffering now."

"No, he isn't. But you are. If there's anything I can do to help you, please let me know."

"Would you mind attending the service? Funeral service, I mean. I think Brian would have liked to know that there was someone who knew what he went through."

"I would be honored," Lucien assured her. "You can leave word at the police station with the details, and I promise you I will be there."

"Thank you, Doctor Blake. You've been very kind."

"You take care now, Mrs. Crenshaw."

As Alice replaced the sheet over the body she frowned at Lucien. "Do you think that's a good idea, going to the funeral?"

He smoothed down the hair at the back of his head. "Probably not, but how could I refuse her request?" He considered for a moment. "I also want to see if anyone shows up that might have had a reason for wanting Mr. Crenshaw out of the picture."

He returned to the park, needing another look at the site where the body had been found. He hoped he might be able to visualize what had taken place, but nothing came to him. The amount of blood on the ground indicated this was clearly where the murder had taken place, but that was about all he could tell. The area had been well-trampled since then so there was no hope of identifying the footprints of the killer or the victim.

Giving it up, he drove home. It was already dark when he arrived, but he took a moment to compose himself. If both Matthew and Alice had commented on his appearance, there was no hope that Jean wouldn't notice the effects of the day's events on him.

He needn't have bothered. Charlie had already been home and warned Jean and Mattie that Lucien was likely to be upset. He barely had time to hang his hat on a hook inside the door before they were asking after him.

"I'm fine," he assured them, holding up his hands in surrender.

Jean was not convinced. "You don't look fine," she noted. "I think a whiskey is definitely in order."

"Yes, Doctor Beazley," he chuckled. "Seriously, it was… upsetting, to say the least. But now I can look at it as a case to solve. Distance myself."

Jean's look told him she was less than convinced about that, but she knew better than to press him. When he reached the point of needing her help, he would tell her more about it.

He tried to force himself into a more jovial mood during dinner, asking the two ladies about their day, teasing Mattie about her visit to a particularly cantankerous patient. By the time he finished his second whiskey in the sitting room afterwards, he was feeling some of the day's tension ease away and suddenly he felt very weary. He hoped he might be able to get some sleep.

As if sensing this, Jean announced she would head up to bed. She gave Mattie a stern look, and the young nurse excused herself, too.

"Good night, Lucien. Sleep well," Jean told him, touching his shoulder lightly as she moved past him.

"Thank you, Jean. Good night."