We followed the man through the open foyer and through the small office that served to guard the entrance to the morgue. The building, constructed of stone and cement with only the vaguest attempts at decoration, left a chill in the body beyond mere note of cold temperature. I consoled myself that the place was so drear no spirit would tether themselves to it - though such thoughts were mere affectations. Roger appeared equally ill at ease as we passed through the light wooden door into the room - he stared straight ahead, dark eyes never wavering from the back of our guide's head. I shuddered as we passed a dark, heavy wooden door which possessed an unsettlingly large lock that seemed far stronger than required for its task. I was thankful that the clerk did not stop here, as he had the previous day, to retrieve the unknown lady from the room. Even though it was mostly empty it was by far the most terrifying room I had ever entered for that was where they kept the bodies of those recently passed on shelves. The room itself was entirely stone and poorly lit, the dancing of the lamp light made the corpses seem to move on their shelves. The white sheets which covered them only made the effect more ghastly for the fear of what might lie beneath. For my part I did not relish once more throwing off the white sheet from that woman's cold, prone form. There is something about a corpse that is naturally unsettling - when the final spark of life has been extinguished it loses something of its humanity and, instead, more closely resembles the clay from which the first man was originally formed. I had passed the whole of the afternoon yesterday beside this woman - there was no surprise or shock I should feel when the cloth was removed - and yet I steeled myself for what I knew I would, once more, witness. I had been warned of her appearance yesterday by the well meaning clerk. The initial shock caused my sensible mind to malfunction and instinctive revulsion possessed me; I still vividly recalled how quickly I had turned my face from hers - the clerk made to cover her again but I managed to recover myself enough to bid him stop, that I would be fine in a moment if he would leave us. "I must warn you sir, her appearance may be a bit of a shock." the clerk repeated to Roger the same words he had attempted to warn me with. Roger nodded,

"Best get on with it then." The man pulled the sheet away and Roger immediately turned on his heel away from the gruesome scene. His twitching fingers balled just below his paled lips, "You might have prepared me better." he hissed at me.

"You might have been more amenable to listening." I replied. He inhaled a deep breath, exhaled heavily, and turned back towards the corpse, trying as hard as he might to avoid looking at the sharp edged hole filled with a mashed stew comprised of brain, bone, and what could be assumed had once been identified as her face. Framing the destroyed features was a halo of reddish blond hair streaked with shining strands of silver and white.

"I see what you meant about her death being problematic." He observed as the clerk removed the remainder of the sheet, revealing the thin frame of the woman still clad in her dark blue uniform, shield shining from the neckline. I walked over to the table where upon the woman lay, the twinge of recurrent shock having resolved itself.

"Now, if you would come over here," I beckoned to my reluctant companion. "You will be able to get a better view." He approached slowly; attempting to conceal his disgust as discretion. "As I am certain you have noticed, the face has been ruined by a number of blows from both a blunt object and a sharp edge."

"Two weapons?"

"I thought so at first but I'm now quite certain the villain used a hatchet: the cuts were made first and, when that proved insufficient for his ends, he used the blunt end to obliterate the remainder. But that part of the attack was not what caused her death." I turned to the clerk, "If you would please leave us." Roger waited until the man had left to continue his query,

"You mean to say she survived such an assault?"

"No, I mean to say she had perished well before the injuries were inflicted. Near as I can tell from her wounds, she was stabbed in the back with a large knife and bled to death. You'll notice how pale her skin is," I indicated to her legs, uncovered just below the hem of the blue skirt, where the white flesh was mottled by pale bruising and intricate forms delicately incised onto the skin with a blade, "and there is no blood in the wound."

"Then why go to the trouble of inflicting such grievous injury if she were already deceased? And would not the uniform be soaked in blood?"

"Exactly! But there is not a drop of blood on the uniform despite multiple lacerations and abrasions on the body."

"So she was not wearing the uniform when she was murdered." he said grimly. "Was there any evidence of..." he trailed off but I understood his implication.

"Not that I can tell; nor anyone I would wager." I took a deep breath, not wishing to again fathom the depths of depravity the murderer had dredged, but still it must be spoken; "That area was badly mutilated with the knife. No determination could be made due to the extensive damage." Roger closed his eyes in a slow wince, sucking in a shallow breath. Releasing it he allowed his eyes to rest on the woman's midsection, which appeared as an undisturbed blue oasis in the desert of horrors that was this woman's corpse. I recalled having done the same.

"Was it done after death?"

"No, but near it, for there was very little blood." He shook his head,

"The monster could not even wait until she- her hands!" all revulsion was forgotten in that moment as he crouched down, eyes level with her hands, for a closer examination. Agitated, he demanded, "Were the hands of the three other victims similarly marked?"

"Yes." I answered. Taking hold of the hand he turned it so he could see the palm. Nodding, he set the hand down.

"All four of the women had their hands bound by a cord that had been knotted a number of times along its length-"

"With a crucifix placed between the palms." I nodded confirmation, "The binding was so tight the object left deep bruising on the flesh testifying to it's shape."

"Did the murderer destroy the faces of the other women as well?"

"No, she was the only one to be thus abused."

"Tell me about the first thee women." he requested.

"The first was a prostitute, Adele Keller, she was in her mid thirties as best they could guess, a German immigrant. She was found in an alleyway. Blond hair, blue eyes, injuries similar to this woman, same marks on the hands excepting cut marks on the wrist that were believed to have been made by a hand saw. She had recently been seen at a number of Salvation Army rallies. No children, pregnant at the time of death. The second victim was not found until after the third one so it was more difficult to determine the connection between the two. She was found in a rain barrel some time after her death - the man who discovered her thought a rat must have fallen in and died causing the smell - they were unable to identify her but a few members of the Salvation Army reported that a woman who had occasionally sought food with them and matched her physical description had not been seen for well over a week but they knew nothing more of her than that she identified herself solely as," I involuntarily gulped from the familiarity of the name in connection with another young woman of my acquaintance who but for the grace of God... I dare not think beyond it. "Sarah."

"Another blond?"

"Yes." I answered, recollecting myself to the task at hand.

"A prostitute as well?"

"The body was too far gone to hazard a guess beyond that she was of the working class."

"And the third woman?"

"Mary Trimble, in appearance she was similar to the first two. Thirty two years old, originally of Hove, she was a known prostitute with an predilection for opiates. She was discovered in a pile of garbage near one of the local taverns. She had been known to frequent Salvation Army meetings in order to acquire food. Survived by one son, now an orphan.

"And there were no saw marks on the wrists of the other two bodies?"

"No. Only the first."

He drew himself up to full height,

"Has this woman's identity been determined?"

"No. The local Salvation Army Captain, Ada Smith, could not identify her, nor did she know of any reported missing among her people. She speculated the woman may have heard of the trouble in Worthing and come to offer her assistance but was murdered before she was able to find safe haven in the barracks. If that is the situation we may never know who see was."

"So you believe the damage to the face...?"

"Was done to conceal her identity. Exactly. It is an intentional aberration from the other bodies. I believe there was an important reason why he chose to conceal this specific woman's identity. Further, I do not believe this woman to have had a similar history as the other three - if you'll notice the fingers," I picked up the hand in my own and held it for Roger to see - decorum now wholly surrendered in my eagerness to display my discovery. "You'll notice there is no roughness about them from laboring, there is not even a callous from stitching clothing. She is also in fine physical health, her flesh is plump and I see no sign of illness abut her. I believe she was not a former prostitute or laborer but a gentlewoman."

"Why are the fingertips discolored? Was this the killer's doing?" Roger asked still staring at the hand, befuddled. I blushed crimson at the mention of the blue tinted fingertips, having forgotten that particular detail;

"It was mine. A few years past I read a letter that had been published in the Journal, Nature, from a doctor in Tokyo. It suggested that a person might be identified from the specific ridges on their fingers. It was rebutted by another who claimed finger ridges change over time, but were the prints recent, I conjectured they should be able to be matched even if they were changeable. I decided, in lieu of any other identifying features, it might prove useful to make a print of them in case we were able to determine whom she might be - then we might have more definite confirmation. But they had to be collected now, before decay set in."

"That reeks of quackery; but I cannot blame you for attempting it. So the prevailing belief is the woman was murdered while traveling to assist the Salvation Army. Am I to assume the investigators are focusing on the rogues gallery we witnessed out there?"

"Yes, the police think the murders were executed by a member or members of the Skeleton Army who are targeting women associated with the Salvation Army."

"But you doubt it." He stated more than asked the question. I arched a brow at him,

"I doubt she was even a member of this Salvation Army."

"Hmmm. Why so?"

"The uniform is too neat - if it is not new than it is as good as - there are no signs of wear, no wrinkles from sitting, not even a trace of dirt from the journey. I have never known a coach or train I did not leave without a hint of dust or crease."

"What do you think, then?"

"I believe, as with her face, she was dressed in the uniform to further obfuscate her identity and cast suspicion onto the so-called Skeleton Army. But I need not convince you of that point."

"No, it would be redundant to try. You were right to call me in."

"Then it is as I suspected?" I asked, knowing full well I did not need to name the man for Roger to understand the implication of the query.

"I cannot guess as to how you gained access to the case files, but yes, this is undoubtedly the work of Charles Chapman."

"And you are certain it is not someone attempting to copy him?"

"No, the bindings on the hands, the cuts along the legs and, I am guessing, the arms as well?" I nodded in affirmation. "The patterns are far too precise to have been done by any but the deranged mind that first birthed them. And then there is the mark of the crucifix."

"So the murders are religious in nature?"

"Only in superficial form - the man has less religion than I. Blood is his only God, torture his most fervent prayer. The crucifix is for attention, that some might praise his actions as those of a moralist. But he has changed - he did not take the hands as he used to do."

"I read a number were found in the room at the boarding house were he stayed, stitched together in a pattern of prayer, but with the same marks."

"The were found in the same manner in Australia as well. The dry sun of the Outback left them well preserved."

"I thought they never found evidence he had escaped to Australia?"

"They did not. I took it upon myself to follow my father's notes which had been returned to me upon his death. Using them I was able to narrow down his location to a shack in the desert in which I found enough to know he had not ceased his violent ways for even a moment. I counted at least seventeen victims. I waited for his return but I suspect he knew I was on his trail and opted to leave without confrontation."

"So why did he not remove the hands as before?"

"Why, indeed." he raised his eyebrows as if waiting for me to come upon the answer.

"He intended to... we know that from the saw marks on the wrists of the first woman..." I hesitated, considering the thing carefully. "But he would be unable to conceal them where he is currently residing - or else the mere fact we are aware of them has caused them to lose their sacred specialness to him. But I think it to be the former because he still takes the bindings which would be far easier to hide in shared quarters. It is enough for him to have the individual bindings without the hands that were bound."

"I believe it goes beyond that Miss Moore." Four years in the service and he still could not call me 'Agent'. "By leaving the hands he is declaring his return to those who would know it. There can be no mistaking the pattern of the bindings to those familiar with the case. But to those who are not-"

"And few Worthing detectives would be familiar with a Blackpool murderer."

"Particularly one the Mayor sought to bury. That twit Cocker was more afraid for his resorts than his people." he snorted, his hand hitting the table beside the corpse with the quiet force of his frustration. "If not for my father's records there would be none of Chapman."

"Then there can only be one whom his message is for..."

"He is intending his taunt for me. Likely he means it as revenge for disturbing his hunting grounds."

"But why Worthing of all places? Were he hiding amongst the ranks of the Skeleton Army why not London where they are most numerous?"

"That I cannot conjecture to. But whatever his reason, he is here - these four women attest to it. And make no mistake, Miss Moore, he will kill again." He turned on heel and strode from the room. I hurried behind, striving to keep up with him.

"Where are you going?"

"To Wembley." I stopped for a moment, stunned at this pronouncement.

"Wembley?" I asked, once again rushing to match his pace. "What is in Wembley?"

"That is where Chapman's mother and sister moved to in order to escape their infamy."

"I was unaware he had any relations still living."

"He is only survived by his sister and she has had her name changed. According to my father: while her mother was adamant that no information about her son be shared with our agents or the investigators he suspected the sister only maintained silence at her mother's order. She was a foul woman that one, barely a Lady by breeding but you might have thought she were the Duchess of York for how she scrabbled at respectability. An hour in her company was enough to even bring my father to sympathy for Chapman. There was suspicion, at the time, that it was the sister who revealed the name of the boarding house where Chapman was residing. She is the only person alive, save for his final victim, who is able to identify Chapman."

"There are no photographs? What of the final victim?" I asked as we turned the corner so sharply I had to place my hand against the rough brick corner of a building to master my forward momentum into the motion.

"Lady Chapman immolated all but a ferrotype of Chapman as an infant. As for the final victim, she was only an orphan child of fifteen at the time, my father tracked her whereabouts to London but following his death she disappeared into its underbelly. I fear she may have passed." We approached the train station, "I'm sorry, Miss Moore but this is where I must leave you for now."

"Roger!" I cried, attempting to at least slow him.

"A ticket for Wembley, if you would?" He requested of the station agent. "And it is James so long as we are in public, though Mr. Bond if you would - no sense leading people to believe we are familiar." he made a tip of his hat as though to suggest something. My face burned with frustration or humiliation - possibly both. "I had hoped to see your situation and meet this zealot of yours, Miss Moore, but I believe that will have to wait. I will write when I have found something. Until then do take care not to put yourself into harms way. I do not need to remind you, Chapman prefers blonds." And with that Roger disappeared into the crowd. I stamped my boot onto the wooden floor in frustration - four years past and the man was as infuriating as when I had left him.