Investigation IV: The examination
**Investigation IV: The examination**
As they stepped into the dimly lit interior of The Healing Hand, the room seemed to exhale a heavy breath of antiquity. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and the faint aroma of decay, casting an eerie pallor over the scene. The flickering candlelight danced upon the cracked walls, revealing shelves cluttered with dusty bottles and jars, their contents long forgotten.
They were met with the sight of Mr. Thompson, an elderly man with a stooped posture, and Ama, a diligent figure moving quietly beside him. The weight of age etched deep lines on Mr. Thompson's face, giving him an air of wisdom and weariness.
Amelia's voice quivered slightly as she spoke, the gravity of the situation hanging heavily in the air. "Mr. Thompson, with the mayor's permission, we are here to observe your examination of Edmund Cromwell."
Mr. Thompson simply acknowledged their presence with a nod. His hands, gnarled and trembling slightly, moved with deliberate slowness as he approached the task at hand. Ama, her presence silent but supportive, stood close by, ready to assist.
The examination took place upon a weathered wooden table, its surface etched with years of use and stained with the remnants of countless potions and poultices. The table creaked under the weight of Edmund's lifeless body, draped in a threadbare sheet that bore witness to the inescapable grip of sorrow.
Mr. Thompson's trembling fingers delicately removed the gag from Edmund's mouth. As the tightly wound fabric unraveled, the room descended into a suffocating silence. The body was deformed, with blood gathered in the hands, feet, and neck, consitent with a hanging. The imprints etched upon Edmund's lips spoke of the unspeakable cruelty he had endured. He puts his hands on the dead man's throat and begins to massage it, gently. A rotting smell erupted from the mouth. Purge fluid ran down his lips -- black and viscous. He got close to the swollen mouth-hole, eyes squinting from the noxious fumes: "Not injury related."
Mr. Thompson gently turned Edmund's head, exposing a haunting bruise on the back of it. It was a monstrosity born of violence as if the very essence of brutality had clawed its way into Edmund's flesh. The discoloration defied nature itself, an abomination of sickly purples and mottled blacks that seemed to pulsate with otherworldly energy. Veins, like writhing serpents, snaked across the bruise, their twisted forms visible beneath the translucent skin.
The noose, a macabre symbol of death, was the next focus of Mr. Thompson's attention. His touch revealed a morass of human essence clinging to its twisted strands—a haunting mixture of sweat, tears, and blood, melded with the loamy residue of dirt and decay. Shadows danced upon his face as he leaned closer, his failing eyesight straining to decipher the faint scratches and traces of blood and dirt clinging to the fibers. "His struggle against the suffocating grip..." he murmured.
"Haemorrhaging is observed on the skin above and below the ligature mark. The mark is well pronounced, consistent with a drop from 1 or 1.5 metres," he stated.
"Upper and lower extremities are intact, but asymmetrical. There are combat injuries on the right hand, thigh, and hip." His voice grew thoughtful as he examined the feet, fingers tracing the worn leather. "Worn soles, scuffed leather... a man who has walked many paths. But alas, no secrets hidden within."
As Ama silently placed a magnifying glass into his quivering hands, Mr. Thompson proceeded to examine the bindings on Edmund's wrists. The raw, scorched skin bore witness to the relentless struggle against the restraints. Each movement of his aged hands held a profound weight as if tracing the echoes of desperation and pain that had consumed Edmund.
Moving down to Edmund's pants, Mr. Thompson carefully checked each pocket, seeking any additional items that could shed light on the circumstances of his death. Ama, ever attentive, provided a small tray to collect the findings. To their disappointment, the pockets yielded nothing. "Loose change, a well-worn handkerchief, and a set of keys... no immediate revelations," he murmured.
Thompson removed the clothes with practiced efficiency, revealing Edmund's body. "Chest is intact," he noted, pressing down it. "Normal contour. Abdomen is protuberant, pelvis intact." His examination continued with professional thoroughness. "Genitalia..." He pulled down the man's underpants with clinical detachment. "Nothing remarkable."
With visible effort, he struggled to turn the corpse on its side, Ama moving quickly to assist. "Back is symmetrical and intact," he observed, fingers tracing over the skin. "I see smaller, residual scars -- too numerous to count, covering about 30% of his skin." His voice carried a note of sadness at this discovery.
As Mr. Thompson concluded the examination, his voice trembled with sorrow. He whispered to himself, "Oh, dear Edmund... my friend. What darkness consumed you? Why would someone do this to you?"
In the silence that followed, Ama meticulously examined the tray of objects collected during the examination, her fingers delicately touching each item. As she reached the cloth used to gag Edmund, a sudden chill ran down her spine. Her eyes widened in horror as she noticed the faint but ominous writing etched onto the fabric, barely visible in the dim candlelight. Silently, she placed it in Thompson's hands, her eyes imploring him to read the words written upon it.
Mr. Thompson began to read its contents, his eyes scanning the words written on it. As his gaze traveled across it, a mixture of shock and horror crossed his weathered features. "Your schemes hang heavy, just as you do, we shall reclaim what is rightfully ours," the ominous message proclaimed, its words dripping with venomous intent.
As they stepped into the dimly lit interior of The Healing Hand, the room seemed to exhale a heavy breath of antiquity. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and the faint aroma of decay, casting an eerie pallor over the scene. The flickering candlelight danced upon the cracked walls, revealing shelves cluttered with dusty bottles and jars, their contents long forgotten.
They were met with the sight of Mr. Thompson, an elderly man with a stooped posture, and Ama, a diligent figure moving quietly beside him. The weight of age etched deep lines on Mr. Thompson's face, giving him an air of wisdom and weariness.
Amelia's voice quivered slightly as she spoke, the gravity of the situation hanging heavily in the air. "Mr. Thompson, with the mayor's permission, we are here to observe your examination of Edmund Cromwell."
Mr. Thompson simply acknowledged their presence with a nod. His hands, gnarled and trembling slightly, moved with deliberate slowness as he approached the task at hand. Ama, her presence silent but supportive, stood close by, ready to assist.
The examination took place upon a weathered wooden table, its surface etched with years of use and stained with the remnants of countless potions and poultices. The table creaked under the weight of Edmund's lifeless body, draped in a threadbare sheet that bore witness to the inescapable grip of sorrow.
Mr. Thompson's trembling fingers delicately removed the gag from Edmund's mouth. As the tightly wound fabric unraveled, the room descended into a suffocating silence. The body was deformed, with blood gathered in the hands, feet, and neck, consitent with a hanging. The imprints etched upon Edmund's lips spoke of the unspeakable cruelty he had endured. He puts his hands on the dead man's throat and begins to massage it, gently. A rotting smell erupted from the mouth. Purge fluid ran down his lips -- black and viscous. He got close to the swollen mouth-hole, eyes squinting from the noxious fumes: "Not injury related."
Mr. Thompson gently turned Edmund's head, exposing a haunting bruise on the back of it. It was a monstrosity born of violence as if the very essence of brutality had clawed its way into Edmund's flesh. The discoloration defied nature itself, an abomination of sickly purples and mottled blacks that seemed to pulsate with otherworldly energy. Veins, like writhing serpents, snaked across the bruise, their twisted forms visible beneath the translucent skin.
The noose, a macabre symbol of death, was the next focus of Mr. Thompson's attention. His touch revealed a morass of human essence clinging to its twisted strands—a haunting mixture of sweat, tears, and blood, melded with the loamy residue of dirt and decay. Shadows danced upon his face as he leaned closer, his failing eyesight straining to decipher the faint scratches and traces of blood and dirt clinging to the fibers. "His struggle against the suffocating grip..." he murmured.
"Haemorrhaging is observed on the skin above and below the ligature mark. The mark is well pronounced, consistent with a drop from 1 or 1.5 metres," he stated.
"Upper and lower extremities are intact, but asymmetrical. There are combat injuries on the right hand, thigh, and hip." His voice grew thoughtful as he examined the feet, fingers tracing the worn leather. "Worn soles, scuffed leather... a man who has walked many paths. But alas, no secrets hidden within."
As Ama silently placed a magnifying glass into his quivering hands, Mr. Thompson proceeded to examine the bindings on Edmund's wrists. The raw, scorched skin bore witness to the relentless struggle against the restraints. Each movement of his aged hands held a profound weight as if tracing the echoes of desperation and pain that had consumed Edmund.
Moving down to Edmund's pants, Mr. Thompson carefully checked each pocket, seeking any additional items that could shed light on the circumstances of his death. Ama, ever attentive, provided a small tray to collect the findings. To their disappointment, the pockets yielded nothing. "Loose change, a well-worn handkerchief, and a set of keys... no immediate revelations," he murmured.
Thompson removed the clothes with practiced efficiency, revealing Edmund's body. "Chest is intact," he noted, pressing down it. "Normal contour. Abdomen is protuberant, pelvis intact." His examination continued with professional thoroughness. "Genitalia..." He pulled down the man's underpants with clinical detachment. "Nothing remarkable."
With visible effort, he struggled to turn the corpse on its side, Ama moving quickly to assist. "Back is symmetrical and intact," he observed, fingers tracing over the skin. "I see smaller, residual scars -- too numerous to count, covering about 30% of his skin." His voice carried a note of sadness at this discovery.
As Mr. Thompson concluded the examination, his voice trembled with sorrow. He whispered to himself, "Oh, dear Edmund... my friend. What darkness consumed you? Why would someone do this to you?"
In the silence that followed, Ama meticulously examined the tray of objects collected during the examination, her fingers delicately touching each item. As she reached the cloth used to gag Edmund, a sudden chill ran down her spine. Her eyes widened in horror as she noticed the faint but ominous writing etched onto the fabric, barely visible in the dim candlelight. Silently, she placed it in Thompson's hands, her eyes imploring him to read the words written upon it.
Mr. Thompson began to read its contents, his eyes scanning the words written on it. As his gaze traveled across it, a mixture of shock and horror crossed his weathered features. "Your schemes hang heavy, just as you do, we shall reclaim what is rightfully ours," the ominous message proclaimed, its words dripping with venomous intent.
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