The Enigma Of The Somerset Murderer

‘The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.’ —Oscar Wilde

The analytical process of solving a case is often reduced to the logical examination of a pattern within the crime's sequence. It relies heavily on a methodical approach, the careful discovery of facts, and the revelation of answers to the ambiguous riddle of the murder.

Thus, if a murder unfolds through a series of continuous events, it must, in turn, yield decisive evidence that can be logically deduced. If a brazen murderer exists, then an ingenious sleuth must inevitably rise to unmask their concealed identity, even when the case appears irrefragable and impossible to solve.

What follows is a tale that reveals the madness of an ancient vengeance revived—disguised as something new, yet criminal in nature. It is a vendetta, carried forth by disturbed descendants who seek justice in the most violent and irrational manner. Murder is never a rational action; it is an irrational deed inflicted upon another in the most horrific way.

In all my years of studying the criminal mind, I had never encountered a case quite like the one I was about to take on. The so-called ‘Enigma of the Somerset Murderer’ would challenge my expertise and take me to the remote region of Somerset, England.

I was in London at 23 Whitehall Place when I received a request for my assistance. A series of mysterious murders were occurring in Somerset, and the local authorities, unable to solve the case, sought my involvement. This would be the first case I would take outside the major metropolitan cities of Europe, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

The year was 1892, and I had just solved a complex case of murders in Wales when I was called to Somerset. For those unacquainted with my profession, I will gladly introduce myself. I am Jack Cauvain, Chief Inspector, renowned for my work on the most mysterious and challenging cases both in Great Britain and abroad.

The next morning, I boarded a train bound for Somerset. I arrived at Shapwick railway station, situated on the Highbridge branch of the Somerset and Dorset Joint Railway. The village, perched on the Polden Hills and overlooking the Somerset Moors, was a small and remote place, west of Glastonbury.

At the station, I was greeted by Constable Harold Hitchcock, a local officer who briefed me on the murders. The village had no proper police station, so Hitchcock had been tasked with investigating the cases alone. He was both relieved and grateful that I had agreed to take over the investigation.

After a brief exchange, Hitchcock led me to the crime scene, located on the grounds of a local civil parish. The murders, he explained, were the work of an unknown assailant whose actions were growing more brazen with each passing day. The details of the case were sparse, and I could sense the growing unease among the villagers. Mr. Milford, the parish beadle, had discovered the latest body, and his frantic gestures revealed the extent of his fear.

The victim had been hanged from the tower of the parish church. The manner of death was brutal and deliberate, a statement in itself from a killer who sought to instill fear. But I could not ignore the question: who was this disturbed individual, and what could be the cause of his maniacal behaviour?

'Have you made any discoveries, sir?' Hitchcock asked.

'Let me say this before I answer your question: I have seldom seen a crime of such brutality. It forces me to be more deliberate in my observations. Now, as for your question: it’s clear that the positioning of the body is deliberate—either the act of a man driven by vanity, or a fiend of a more deranged nature'.

'And what evidence do we have? There’s been no reliable witness so far, and no clear signs of the killer', Hitchcock remarked.

'Though it may appear that we’re at a disadvantage, there are always clues—often overlooked—that can lay the foundation of our investigation', I replied.

'I don’t follow, sir'.

'It’s simple. First, notice the blood stains—the blood on the ground is still fresh, as are the marks on the victim’s body. Second, there are faint footprints, a deliberate attempt to mislead us regarding the murderer’s direction of flight. The murderer’s plan was interrupted—perhaps he feared being caught. But the most significant evidence lies in the victim’s condition. The discolouration around his lips and the blisters around his mouth tell me that he was poisoned before being hanged. The killer most likely befriended the victim. This murderer is someone the villagers would have trusted'.

'Poisoned, you say? Are you certain?' Hitchcock asked. 'Could the killer have been wearing a disguise? Surely he wouldn’t be so daring'.

'Whilst a disguise is a possibility, I believe the murderer’s identity isn’t as concealed as we may think. And I’m certain he is not working alone in these crimes'.

'Why do you say that?' Hitchcock asked, intrigued.

'Experience, my friend. Experience has taught me to be cautious with assumptions'.

'Do you think the killer escaped into the nearby heath?'

'That’s a plausible theory, but I won’t make that leap just yet. We cannot let him be perceived as a genius based solely on his initial success'.

A cold draught swept across us from the moorland as we departed the scene, heading towards the village mortuary. I instructed Hitchcock to transport the body there for privacy, as I suspected there were more secrets to uncover about the manner of the victim’s death.

The mortuary was located in Gloucestershire, a few kilometres from Shapwick. I hoped it would offer more insights into the victim’s cause of death. If my suspicions were correct, the victim had been poisoned first, then hanged. If he had been hanged while still alive, someone would have heard his cries for help. Therefore, I was inclined to believe that the victim was already dead when he was placed on display.

Another clue piqued my interest: a strange coin. One of the villagers, Mr. Bellingham, had found a minted coin near the site of one of the previous murders. I wasn’t an expert in coins, but I knew someone who was—Mr. Dorian Creech, a local coin collector and art connoisseur. I planned to speak with him next.

There was also an apothecary, Mr. Merrifield, who ran a shop near the village emporium. He could provide insights into the chemicals or poisons used in the murder. When I spoke with him, he gave vague answers, but confirmed that he sold cyanide. When I asked if cyanide could cause the discolouration and blisters I had observed, he nodded and said that it could.

'You’re investigating the murders?' He asked, with a knowing look.

'Yes', I replied.

'I welcome you to Shapwick', he said cryptically as I left his shop.

At the mortuary in Gloucestershire, the pathologist confirmed my suspicions: the victim, identified as Mr. James Mulligan, had indeed been poisoned before being hanged.

Apparently, he was a wealthy merchant and had conducted business with other traders outside of Shapwick. The unmistakable discolouration of the lips, shaded in a disturbing hue of purple, along with the blisters around the mouth, starkly visible against the pallor of the skin, were the unambiguous signs confirming the death of Mr Mulligan. This validated my sustaining hypothesis of murder, and would offer intuitive insight into the prevention of another killing.

Once the true cause of Mr Mulligan’s death had been determined, we left the mortuary and returned to Shapwick. Before our departure, I had instructed Hitchcock to have the other victims’ bodies sent to the pathologist for thorough examination. I was increasingly convinced that the murderer was poisoning his victims prior to hanging them. During our journey back to the village, I could not shake the sense that we were dealing with a killer both devious and calculating. Yet, the lingering question remained—were we contending with more than the mind of a mere madman?

Back in Shapwick, we convened at the local inn where I had taken up temporary lodging. It was most irregular to lead an investigation from such a setting, but the peculiar nature of this case demanded improvised methods and strategic circumvention in pursuit of one ultimate aim: the apprehension of the murderer.

‘If my suspicions about poison being the primary method of killing are correct, then based on the pattern of the murderer’s recent actions, we are dealing with a paradox that aligns with my previous irresolvable presumption’, I suggested.

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow your logic!’ Hitchcock replied.

‘Simple, Hitchcock. There is an absolute pattern forming in these murders—one governed by rational planning and deliberate arrangement’.

‘What shall we do next?’

‘If my premonition is accurate, the murderer will strike again. I only hope we are not too late to prevent it’.

‘Where, sir?’

‘I do not yet know—but I assure you, we shall soon find out!’

‘Let us hope, for the villagers’ sake, that the killer is still within the vicinity’.

‘My intuition tells me that he is very near indeed!’

That night, several constables from the shire patrolled the village and neighbouring communities, as murders had also been reported in those areas. It was extremely difficult to anticipate where the murderer might strike next, although we knew he had shown a predilection not to venture far beyond Somerset.

We remained stationed in Shapwick, with concentrated patrols in this village and in Glastonbury, where other killings had occurred. Around midnight, news reached us of another ghastly murder—this time in Bridgwater, several kilometres from Shapwick, but still within the shire of Somerset. The crime scene was the Castle House, a two-storey brick structure that resembled an ornate gatehouse. The victim’s body was found hanging from the upper bay of one of the stairwells.

The scene was macabre in the extreme, and the irrefutable evidence left no room for levity. It became immediately clear that we were dealing with a murderer driven by an inflexible cause or twisted inspiration. As with the previous victims, this one had been hanged and bore the same signs of poisoning. The killer had evidently employed poison as a method of execution—but the question remained, what was the ultimate motive behind this?

Within the recesses of the building’s wall, I noted fresh bloodstains, and began to search the surrounding area for any sign of footprints. As with the earlier murders, the killer’s escape route offered several possible directions. The person who had discovered the body was a young man passing by at the late hour. His testimony, however, proved vague and, like previous witness accounts, inconclusive.

Thus, we could not rely on his version of events, as he had provided no definitive description or verified details. With little more to glean, we permitted him to return to his home.

The killer had demonstrated meticulous planning, but a sinister compulsion drove him to unleash his erratic, volatile temperament. I suddenly realised that his precision was, in fact, imitable. Though he consistently hanged his victims after poisoning them, he seemed to derive a perverse satisfaction from inventing new and gruesome methods. It was imperative that we build a solid foundation of facts and distinguish them from conjecture. I conveyed this necessity to Hitchcock in the clearest terms:

‘We are dealing with a murderer whose machinations know no bounds, and whose cold, calculating mind operates with chilling precision. Therefore, we must always maintain the advantage when dealing with the particulars of this investigation—and always proceed grounded in verifiable facts, never in assumptions’.

‘But how are we to predict where the murderer will strike next, when we’ve already attempted to patrol all the surrounding areas and he remains elusive?’ Hitchcock asked.

‘True—but the killer has chosen to remain within this region, Hitchcock. My logic leads me to believe he is selecting his victims with intent—some apparent reason yet unknown, one that compels him to kill. I am convinced this is the case, and we must investigate that possibility. I need you to instruct one of the constables assisting us to continue combing the area and gather any information that may support or refute this theory’.

‘Of course, I’ll do that at once! If I may ask, sir—what do we stand to gain from this line of enquiry?’

‘It may help uncover the pattern behind the killer’s objectives. Regardless, it is essential that we remain vigilant to every circumstance that has unfolded.’

At that time, the identity of the victim was still unknown, and we would have to wait for confirmation. Meanwhile, we returned to Shapwick and continued our enquiries. There, we received multiple reports from the constables. According to their accounts, several witnesses had observed a peculiar individual of tall stature frequenting local taverns late at night. I was eager to learn more—particularly about his physical description and estimated age. Based on appearance alone, he was said to be a middle-aged man in his forties.

One curious detail revealed by the witnesses stood out—his keen interest in coins. Apparently, the man was a coin collector. This instantly reminded me of the minted coin found at the previous murder scene. Was this mere coincidence—or a meaningful connection? Further exploration would be required.

The following morning, the pathologist’s report arrived—and it confirmed precisely what I had suspected. The previous victims had been poisoned before they were hanged. As I carefully reviewed the findings, I began to grasp the complexity of this disturbing revelation. I informed Hitchcock and the constables that our investigation would now focus exclusively on the irrefutable facts. I also told Hitchcock that I intended to speak directly with the coin collector.

We visited the antiquary, Mr Dorian Creech, at his art studio in the village centre. Unfortunately, he was not present, and we were unable to speak with him. The only person there was a young woman, whom I assumed to be a studio assistant.

I identified myself, stating that I wished to speak with Mr Creech privately. Regrettably, he was not available. When I asked for his residence, she provided me with a slip of paper bearing his address. I explained that my interest was in his coin collection and expertise.

We departed the studio and made our way to Mr Creech’s residence. His home, situated about half a mile along a winding lane near Glastonbury, was a grand Tudor manor surrounded by thirty acres of splendid gardens and countryside, bordered by majestic cedar trees.

At the front door, we were greeted by a man who introduced himself as the butler. Upon identifying ourselves as law officials, we were escorted to the lounge and seated in the chesterfield armchairs. The room was adorned with numerous paintings, presumably Creech’s, each appearing priceless.

Soon, Mr Creech entered and greeted us warmly.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. A pleasure to have you here. I have heard much about you, Inspector Cauvain—your reputation precedes you. My assistant at the studio informed me you were interested in discussing my coin collection and expertise. Is that correct?’

‘Indeed, Mr Creech. And since you already know my name, allow me to introduce Constable Hitchcock. We’ve come to discuss a particular coin that remains something of a mystery. We were told you are an expert in vintage coins, and hoped you might assist in our investigation. No doubt you are aware of the recent murders taking place in this region?’

‘Yes, indeed. I am something of a connoisseur of art and history. As for the killings—yes, I am fully aware of those tragic events. How may I be of assistance?’

I presented the coin, handing it to him. ‘Here it is. What can you tell us about its origin?’

His examination was diligent as he observed the coin. It was then that he drew his veridical conclusion: 'Have you ever heard of the "Ancient Noble Order of the Gormogons?" It was an 18th-century society, infamous and associated with the Jacobites. Oddly enough, they left no records or achievements to indicate any meaningful purpose. Now, as for the minted coin—it appears to have been made in the year 1799, and the Latin inscription "GEORGIVS DUX CUMBRIA" means George, Duke of Cumberland, referring to the same George II, the Jacobite Duke of Cumberland. This is a significant finding. May I ask, where did you discover this coin?'

'It was found beside one of the victims'.

'That is a terrible anomaly, but do you mind if I keep the coin? I would like to study it further, as it is a rare piece of history nowadays'.

'Of course not. You are the expert, not I. If you’ll excuse us, we must continue our investigation elsewhere'.

'I understand. If you require my services again, do not hesitate to contact me'.

The manor was commodious and elegant inside. It had a wood burner, a library, distinct apartments, a bright chandelier, and ceiling windows that reflected a soft sheen of sunlight. The manor stood at the junction of Church Road and Northbrook Road, and as we departed the estate, I noticed how the roads intersected.

At first, this peculiarity did not strike me, but once we passed the junction, a sudden eeriness overcame me. Hitchcock sensed something odd in my expression and asked what was occupying my thoughts. I told him to quickly stop the carriage. We disembarked and walked slowly to where the two roads met.

At a glance, one would not notice anything discernible amongst the trees. The junction was a useful convergence, allowing entrance and exit from the area in both directions. I could then clearly see the likelihood of the murderer using these roads—and possibly other such junctions—to carry out the despicable murders. I shared my sudden supposition with Hitchcock, explaining the need for constables to patrol the junctions of the nearby roads. He concurred with my analysis.

Upon returning to Shapwick, he instructed the constables to do exactly as I had suggested. As evening approached, one of the constables discovered another dead body, near an abandoned old mill by the River Stour in Dorset, part of the Kingston Lacy Estate.

When we arrived, it was nearly nightfall, leaving us little time to examine the body and surroundings thoroughly. Our task became more difficult and pressing as the encroaching night loomed with uncertainty. The body was in an advanced state of decomposition and putrefaction; we could only determine the gender of the victim.

It was a man, perhaps in his mid-sixties, though that was not easily confirmed. I was instantly struck by the fact that the victim bore no visible signs of poisoning; rather, he had been choked to death. This suggested that the pattern of the murders was not identical but varied in nature.

Unlike the other victims, his death had occurred in a most peculiar fashion, I thought. He appeared to have been dead for a couple of days. My question was not when the murder had been committed, but whether more victims were yet to be discovered in the area.

This murder was a new revelation, making the killer even more unpredictable and notable. It also suggested that the killer was extremely astute—or that someone was assisting him in these horrid murders. I leaned towards the latter theory: that someone else was aiding him. If there was one positive takeaway from this murder, it was that it supported my theory about the roads and junctions.

'The poor chap never stood a chance, and this only complicates the case, sir!' Hitchcock remarked.

'Perhaps you are right, Hitchcock. If we can determine, meticulously and with sound judgement, the roads exploited by the murderer, then we might devise an effective plan to capture him', I replied.

'Are you suggesting we increase patrols in the area?'

'Precisely! We must search the entire area, including the outskirts of the shire', I added.

'That would include the expansive Exmoor—an area of hilly open moorland in west Somerset and north Devon—where there’s an ancient causeway nearby, the Crawford Bridge, the White Mill, and the moss bogs of the River Brue and the Brue Basin Peat Moors. But some of those areas are rural and nearly impassable'.

'Indeed! We must be prudent in our accuracy; we cannot afford to err in our assumptions'.

'And if we do?'

I sighed before replying, 'Then we shall almost certainly discover another dead body'.

We left Dorset and returned to Shapwick, and on our way to rendezvous with the other constables, we crossed the wooden pathway at Shapwick Heath, where we found a young boy, no older than ten, lying on the ground.

I quickly descended from the carriage and tended to the lad, who was visibly agitated. I asked his name, and he told me he was Henry. I noticed the boy had dyslexia, but what he disclosed was of considerable importance.

According to the boy, a mysterious dark carriage had passed by earlier and stopped when the driver spotted him. The driver was an ordinary man, but the passenger inside was a wealthy gentleman who handed the boy a minted coin. The boy then showed me the coin, and I immediately recognised it as another of the minted coins linked to the murderer. I asked Henry if he could describe the man, and he provided not only a clear description of his appearance but also details about the carriage.

I asked him directly if he was certain of what he was telling me, and he confirmed it. He even told me the direction in which the carriage had departed. We knew we had to investigate his claim, so we took him with us and followed the narrow road he indicated.

At the end of the road stood a capacious house—a two-storey stone building with an asymmetrical frontage and a glazed veranda supported by iron columns. It featured a stable block, a dovecote, an impressive roof, and stone screen walls constructed of fine masonry.

As we passed the rear garden, we spotted a carriage, and the boy promptly identified it as the same dark, daunting carriage he had seen earlier. The pressing question now was: to whom did this carriage and elegant house belong? I was eager to find out, and so was Hitchcock, but we had to proceed with caution and patience. Night was falling quickly, but fortunately, we had lanterns with us to light our way.

We knocked on the front door, and this time we were greeted not by a butler but by the proprietor of the house. The lad turned pale as he recognised the man. Uncannily, it was indeed the same stranger who had given him the minted coin. His eerie look unsettled the boy, whose expressions betrayed his apprehension. He pointed at the man and whispered hurriedly that it was indeed him. The boy’s gestures and memory were unmistakeable.

'Are you certain this is the same man you saw at Shapwick Heath?' I asked the boy.

'Yes sir, it’s him—and the carriage too!' He affirmed.

'Very well. Wait here with the constable while I speak with the gentleman'.

'Yes, sir. I shall wait here until you return'.

I approached the man and introduced myself: 'Good evening, sir. We do not mean to disturb your night, and I am sure you are busy with other matters, so I shan’t take much of your time. I am Chief Inspector Jack Cauvain, and this is my assistant, Constable Harold Hitchcock. We found this young lad alone at the pathway at Shapwick Heath. Do you happen to know who he is or where he lives?'

The proprietor stared at the boy and shook his head. 'I’m afraid I don’t know the lad, but I imagine he must be from the nearby orphanage for waifs and children with special needs'.

'An orphanage, you say? Would you be so kind as to tell me where it is located?' I asked.

'I believe it’s at the edge of the winding road ahead. I’m afraid I cannot tell you any more than that', he replied.

'Thank you for your assistance. May I ask your name?'

'Mr Tasker'.

We left the estate and returned to the village centre. It was too late to search for the orphanage that night, so we took the boy with us, and he stayed in one of the rooms at the local inn where I was lodging.

The next morning, we headed to the orphanage and were greeted by the caretaker, who informed the matron of our presence. Naturally, I introduced myself as Chief Inspector, and Hitchcock as my accompanying constable. The matron, a kind and receptive older woman, was greatly relieved that we had found and returned the boy. I was inclined to keep up with current knowledge, but Hitchcock explained to me that orphanages were still common in the area.

The next morning, we headed to the orphanage and were greeted by the caretaker, who informed the matron of our arrival. Naturally, I explained that I was a chief inspector and that Hitchcock was a constable accompanying me. The matron was a kind and receptive older woman, clearly relieved that we had found and returned the boy. I prided myself on keeping abreast of matters, but Hitchcock had explained to me earlier that orphanages were still common in this area.

Nevertheless, it made little difference, and my initial surprise now seemed misplaced, since the orphanage was evidently a benefit to the community. After leaving the child in their care, we made our way to the junction of roads where we had found the boy the previous evening.

There, we began examining the area for any clear tracks left by a carriage. After several minutes of close inspection, we located what seemed to be reasonable evidence suggesting the junction had been well used by carriages and wagons alike. I focused on determining the carriage tracks specifically and felt confident I was making progress.

'Indeed, these marks are more likely from a carriage than a wagon!' I declared.

'How can you be so sure?' Hitchcock asked keenly.

'Logic, Hitchcock. A curious mind would spot the difference. Look closely at the soil. Although it has hardened a little since yesterday, the depth of the marks is still distinguishable. Wagon wheels would leave deeper ruts than a standard carriage. The imprints we’re observing match those of a carriage.'

'Surely you’re not suggesting this is the road the murderer used, based purely on that?' Hitchcock said, frowning.

'One of the roads, certainly. My argument—and my reasoning—are based on tangible evidence and what I believe to be an oversight by the murderer. Don’t you see? This unexpected clue could be crucial in exposing him. In fact, it may ultimately lead us to his capture'.

'Then we’re getting closer to solving this case!' Hitchcock said eagerly.

'If I’m right, and my assessment holds, we won’t have to search far for the killer. He’ll come to us'. I replied.

'I hope, for the villagers’ sake, you are correct'.

That night, we focused once again on blocking the murderer’s escape routes. The idea of physically obstructing the roads was dismissed after careful consideration. We had few options left, and the pool of suspects was also narrowing. Mr Tasker remained a prime suspect, but I wasn't fully convinced, even though evidence pointed in his direction. Why was he in possession of the minted coins? And how had he acquired them? There was also Mr Creech, the coin collector. Despite his helpfulness in the investigation, he too may have had reasons to be deceitful.

I was determined to press on with resolution, knowing this required sharp perception and full control of unfolding events. I briefly outlined my theory to Hitchcock, and he agreed with my proposal.

What happened next was both coincidental and deeply troubling, complicating the case further. I had intended to visit Mr Creech that day, but upon our arrival, we made a grim discovery: Mr Creech had been murdered.

Yes, the talkative coin collector was dead. The question was, by whom—and why? After examining the body carefully, I concluded that he had been poisoned before being strangled, the rope still left at the scene by the killer. It was a chilling encounter with death at the hands of a calculating murderer.

'It appears we’re too late. The killer has struck again!' Hitchcock said grimly.

'Indeed, Hitchcock, but we must stay vigilant. The murderer may be nearby—we need to be cautious', I replied.

'Do you think he’s still watching us?' Hitchcock asked.

'It’s possible—but unlikely'.

Suddenly, Hitchcock called out, 'Sir, come quickly! The butler is dead—in the lounge!'

I hurried in. 'First Mr Creech, now the butler!'

I then noticed a letter clutched in Mr Creech’s right hand. 'Here’s something—a letter, and it appears to be addressed to me'.

The letter, urgent in tone, mentioned the Ancient Noble Order of the Gormogons and its links to the Jacobites. It also referenced the mysterious minted coins. Mr Creech had concluded that the coins were connected to the murders and hinted that the elusive murderer was someone from the village of Shapwick. Frustratingly, the letter was unfinished—just a scribbled attempt at a name was legible.

Although the letter pointed us in a direction, it fell short of revealing the killer’s identity. The incomplete message both intrigued and frustrated me, forcing me to reflect on the cunning nature of this dangerous individual.

This also confirmed that the killer was not merely deranged, but highly intelligent and calculating. A dark reality was unfolding—sadistic and vindictive. I wondered if the murderer had been in the house and possibly written the letter himself to mislead us. It was a plausible theory I couldn’t ignore, though my instinct said otherwise. Hitchcock soon asked what we should do next.

'We must leave at once, Hitchcock!' I said.

'Where to, sir?'

'To Tasker’s house!'

'Shall I inform the other constables?'

'No time—they’re likely nearby. We must go immediately. If my theory is correct, the killer knows Mr Tasker—or is connected to him'.

'I’ll prepare the carriage!'

We left Mr Creech’s house and headed straight to Mr Tasker’s estate, hoping we wouldn't find him dead too. When we arrived, we saw that Mr Tasker’s carriage was gone. We knocked at the door and were told by the butler that Mr Tasker had left for a private engagement with an important businessman.

When I pressed for a name or location, the butler could not say. He only recalled that the man had a shop and had visited the estate several times. I urged him to describe the man’s appearance: tall and thin, he said—but deceptively so.

According to the butler, the man was a former soldier. Although the description was somewhat vague, it was sufficient to form a general supposition. Sadly, I did not have the luxury of dwelling on the finer details; the pressing matter of locating Mr Tasker had overtaken that concern.

Before we left, the butler mentioned that the young lad who had come with us the previous night had returned, and Mr Tasker had personally taken him back to the orphanage before departing to meet the stranger. When he told me this, I uttered the name 'Henry,' and the butler nodded in confirmation. It was a disturbing revelation—one I was unprepared to confront—though it did provide a vital clue as to where we should search. I thanked him for his essential information and hastened towards the orphanage.

When we arrived, however, we were startled to find no one there—not the boy, nor any of the staff. I was immediately unsettled by this odd and troubling circumstance. Turning to Hitchcock, I voiced my strong foreboding that something of a malicious nature had transpired. I instructed him to survey the area at the rear of the building while I entered through the front entrance.

No sooner had I stepped inside than I heard a loud thudding sound. I called out for Hitchcock, but received no reply. A cold realisation struck me: something terrible had befallen him. With judicious caution, I made my way to the back of the building, keeping my wits sharp.

Suddenly, I heard a crepitation—branches snapping or footsteps—from the bog that lay just beyond the orphanage grounds. I hesitated briefly, then moved towards the source of the noise, every sense heightened with cautious resolve. The natural sounds of the bog—croaking frogs, the distant hoot of a barn owl—echoed eerily around me. My instinct told me the stranger lurking nearby was our murderer. But who was he?

Creeping carefully forward, I soon heard the muffled cries of a person. Approaching with slow, deliberate steps, I spotted Henry, bound tightly to the trunk of a tree. I did not rush to him at once, wary that this might be an elaborate ruse. Cautiously, I edged closer—and there, on the ground beside him, lay the lifeless body of Mr Tasker. He had been shot, a single bullet wound clear upon inspection. But by whose hand?

At that precise moment, I felt the unmistakable press of a gun barrel against my back. The murderer had revealed himself at last.

'Inspector Cauvain, good to see you again', came a familiar voice. 'I must say, you have been a worthy adversary. But tell me—did you ever suspect it was me?' He asked with cool amusement.

'Mr Merrifield,' I replied calmly, 'you were indeed among my list of suspects. At first, I wasn’t wholly convinced. But after poring over the pathologist’s report time and again, I saw the truth'.

'By Jove! Am I to believe that?' He asked, his expression guarded, eyes narrowing.

'You may believe what you like', I said evenly. 'But the game is over—your time is up'.

He cocked the hammer of his pistol, smirking darkly. 'It is you, inspector, who are at the disadvantage. Look around—no means of escape, and no one to help you'.

Just then, the barn owl let out a sharp cry—a perfectly timed distraction. Merrifield flinched, just enough. In that instant, constables emerged from the shadows and seized him.

'You see,' I said, turning to him as he struggled futilely, 'the constables were here all along. Last night, I devised a plan: to have them patrol the area closely, sensing that we would eventually corner you—just as a hound corners a fox. This time, the hunter became the hunted'.

And so, the extensive case known as the 'Enigma of the Somerset Murderer' was finally solved, and the elusive killer was taken into custody.

The murderer, as it turned out, was Mr Merrifield, the apothecary whom I had met at the very start of my investigation. Hitchcock, I later discovered, had been struck on the head with Merrifield’s gun and left unconscious by the rear of the orphanage; I found him shortly thereafter. The matron and the children had been bound and locked inside the building, but they were soon freed.

The people of the nearby villages could at last breathe easily, no longer gripped by the persistent fear and dread that had haunted them for so long.

Mr Merrifield was taken to the gaol in Glastonbury, where he was to be held until his trial. I was deeply grateful for the collaboration of the constables, especially Constable Hitchcock, and I made sure to acknowledge his dedication before my departure.

Before Mr Merrifield was escorted from the bog, he asked me how I had known he was the killer. Naturally, I proceeded to explain my reasoning, to which he responded with characteristic poise.

'It is often the weight of apparent evidence we dismiss early on that evolves into a contradictive quandary. My theory was initially tentative and seemed inconsequential—until I began, with sedulous care, to connect two pivotal pieces: the poison and the minted coins. I understand the legal precept of innocence until proven guilty, and I was reluctant to pursue my line of investigation too hastily. Yet, from our first meeting, I noted your compulsive habit of checking your watch—a pantomime that revealed your preoccupation with punctuality, mirroring the precision of the killer. I would say the murderer was proficient, except in one regard: his zealous passion was uncontrollable.

There were developments in the evidence that, at first, appeared delusory or even illusory—such as your unforgettable exposition. You see, you corroborated my theory when you clarified that the marks found on the victims were caused by cyanide. Only a man of medicine would identify such marks without having examined the bodies. This inimitable detail gradually solidified my hypothesis. The physical description of the suspect, though insufficient for an artist’s sketch, lingered in my thoughts. From those omissions and the accumulation of evidence, I methodically worked to form a clearer picture.

What I did not understand until recently was the connection to the Jacobites. It wasn’t until I read Mr Creech’s letter and pondered the signature that the pieces fell into place. I assigned a constable to investigate your background and discovered something peculiar, though not yet enough to arrest you: you are a distant cousin of the Duke of Wharton, a Jacobite sympathizer and former president of one of London’s infamous Hell-Fire Clubs. This fact, at first a historical curiosity, eventually provided the missing link with the coins, transforming speculation into substantiated allegation.

Driven by this revelation, I delved further into the hidden world of your secretive society. What I did not foresee was that Mr Creech and Mr Tasker were also part of this clandestine association and had collaborated with you in the murders. I know all about the Hundred of Whitley—one of the forty historical Hundreds in Somerset. I admire your commitment to your cause, but that struggle ended long ago, before either of us was born. One last point: my detractors often find my methods irksome and argue over my tactics, but I doubt you will be among those questioning my approach'.

Mr Merrifield replied with a twisted smirk, his final vile confession spilling forth before the constables took him away.

'From the tales of heroes and villains, inspector, there are always some destined for ignominy—marked by the taint of scoundrels we must expunge. The honour of the Jacobites will not be consigned to the forgotten pages of history. I make no excuses for my guilt—I killed the descendants of my sworn enemies'.

I chose not to prolong the exchange and turned to Hitchcock with a final remark before we departed.

'The impulsive acts of human nature can forge unexpected connections between individuals, even when vast differences of opinion and deceitful intentions exist. The unrelenting lure of temptation is always irrepressible to the criminal mind, and it is imperative that the sleuth remain impeccable in his inquiry. My experience has taught me that the unpredictable course of any investigation depends not merely on intellect and wit, but also on the introspective disposition of the investigators—those tasked with solving the seemingly insurmountable and the ostensibly irresoluble'.

I went to the gaol where Mr Merrifield was detained. As the heavy iron gates of the gaol clanged shut behind me, I felt an unfamiliar weariness descend. The cold, damp stones of the corridor seemed to echo my thoughts, the sound reverberating in the silence like a reminder of the hours I had spent in pursuit of the truth. The weight of the case pressed heavily upon my shoulders. My mind churned, piecing together fragments of evidence, each part fitting together like the sharp edges of a puzzle.

I lingered near Merrifield’s cell, observing him through the narrow slit in the door. The dim light cast long shadows across his face, making his features appear as jagged as the thoughts I had about him. He sat there, unmoving, staring at the wall with an expression that could only be described as defiant. Those eyes—hollow, yet fierce—seemed to burn with a cold hatred, or perhaps, pride.

It occurred to me, as I stood there, that Merrifield had never once shown the faintest sign of remorse. In all my years of investigating murderers, there had been those who wept, those who pleaded, even those who tried to feign innocence. But Merrifield—no. He had none of that. The man was a soldier of his own cause, and in his mind, he had done no wrong.

I sighed heavily, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the gaol. Was it hatred I saw in those eyes, or something more sinister—an unshakable belief that he was justified in his actions? For a moment, I wondered how many lives had been marred by ancient loyalties and bitter vendettas, long after the battles themselves had been lost. The Jacobite cause was a ghost—one that still haunted the dark corners of men’s minds, even though the fires of rebellion had long since been extinguished.

Turning away, I moved through the gaol’s narrow corridors, my footsteps a steady rhythm that seemed to mirror the ticking of a clock inside my head. Justice had been served, but it felt hollow—like the echo of a bell that rings, but fails to fill the air. I stopped at the heavy oak door leading out into the cool evening air, pausing for a moment. It was the realisation of another case where the criminal would never concede to defeat.

News of Merrifield’s capture spread through the village like wildfire. By morning, knots of townspeople gathered outside the constabulary, whispering fervently. The sense of relief was palpable, but it was mixed with the uncertainty that followed any act of violence. There had been too many whispers in the dark, too many unsettled minds.

I had just finished my report when I heard a knock on the door. It was a woman by the name of Mrs. Pomeroy, the village seamstress, with her young daughter in tow. She was the first to speak, her voice trembling with emotion.

'Inspector', she began, her hands twisting together nervously, 'you’ve brought us peace we haven’t known in months. My husband'—she hesitated, swallowing hard. 'He was one of the first to disappear. It’s been...unbearable. We thought we’d never see him again. What’s going to happen now?'

I looked at her, offering a quiet nod. 'The trial will come, Mrs. Pomeroy. The law will do its work. But rest assured, Merrifield is where he belongs'.

She blinked, her eyes welling with tears. 'I never thought I’d see the day. He was always so...so quiet. Never said a word. And yet'... She trailed off, a faraway look in her eyes as she processed the truth.

Her daughter, a small girl with pale blue eyes, clung to her skirt. 'Is it really over, Mister Inspector?' She asked, her voice small.

'It is', I replied, crouching down to her level. 'But you must never forget that peace, real peace, is something we all work for. And it starts with each of us. No one man or woman can bring it alone'.

Mrs. Pomeroy nodded, though there was a touch of sorrow in her gaze. It wasn’t the relief I had expected. This village had been changed forever, and no arrest could undo that. But the streets were quieter, the air a little less heavy.

As I stepped outside, the town square had already begun to bustle. Shops that had been closed for days had reopened. A fresh loaf of bread sat on the windowsill of Mr. Pryor’s bakery. The usual market chatter had resumed, but it felt different, as if the people had not yet fully believed their newfound safety.

Old Mr. Pryor, the baker, who had been the first to help me track down leads on Merrifield’s associates, approached me with his usual jovial smile. 'Inspector', he called, tipping his cap, 'it’s good to see you, lad. You’ve done us a great service. More than we can ever repay'.

I offered a polite smile in return, though I felt none of the triumph I expected. 'Thank you, Mr. Pryor. But this was a collective effort. Everyone did their part'. I nodded to a group of constables passing by, who nodded back, their faces showing the fatigue of a long ordeal. They too had earned their share of the credit.

The citizens of the nearby villages were now able to rest easy. The specter of fear and consternation that had gripped them for so long seemed, for the first time, to lift. But I knew that beneath their smiles, some wounds ran deep. The horrors of the past months were not easily forgotten.

As I turned to leave, I overheard a few of the older folk discussing the events of the past few weeks. 'Aye', said old Widow Barnes, 'peace might’ve come—but can you ever really forget the kind of man who could do such things?'

Her words lingered in the air, and I could not help but agree.

The moon was high above the village, casting its cold light over the countryside as I made my way back to the constables' station. The events of the day had drained me, but there was a lingering sense of unfinished business. Though the murderer was in custody, something about the case didn’t sit right with me. There were too many loose ends—things I couldn't explain yet.

As I approached the station, I noticed Hitchcock standing by the door, his silhouette outlined against the dim light from inside. He was always there, always steadfast, even when the rest of the world had long since retreated to the comfort of their beds. His loyalty was unwavering, and in the chaos of the investigation, it had been a solid foundation for me.

'Inspector', he greeted me quietly as I approached. His face was tired, his eyes shadowed with the same weariness I felt in my bones.

'I've been meaning to speak with you, Hitchcock', I said, my voice low, careful not to disturb the peaceful stillness of the night. 'There’s something that’s been bothering me about this whole ordeal'.

Hitchcock raised an eyebrow, stepping aside to allow me entry into the station. 'What do you mean, sir?'

We walked into the small office, the faint smell of ink and paper filling the air. The flickering lantern light illuminated the cluttered desk where piles of reports and notes were stacked. I could sense that the case, though technically over, still gnawed at both of us.

'I can’t help but feel that we missed something important', I confessed, running a hand through my hair. 'Mr. Merrifield…he was clever, Hitchcock. Too clever. The poison, the coins, his involvement in the Jacobite society—it all connects in ways we haven't fully explored. Why did he start with Mr. Creech? Why go after those specific individuals?'

Hitchcock nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. 'You’re right, sir. There’s a thread there, a connection between the victims that still isn’t entirely clear. We know that Mr. Creech was part of the same group, but I still wonder about the others. The timing of the murders, the choice of victims—there’s a pattern we haven't cracked yet'.

I leaned against the desk, staring at the papers in front of me. My mind raced through the evidence again, sorting through every detail, every conversation I had had with the witnesses and suspects. It wasn’t enough. There was something deeper lurking beneath the surface, something I had yet to uncover.

'You said that Mr. Merrifield was a distant cousin of the Duke of Wharton, correct?' Hitchcock asked, his voice breaking into my thoughts. 'What if that link wasn’t just a coincidence? What if it’s the key to understanding his motives?'

I frowned, considering this. 'Yes…that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. But why go to such lengths to hide it? Why was he involved in this secretive society? He had the means to live a comfortable life. There was no need for murder. So why? Was it the allure of power? Or something deeper, something more personal?'

I paced the room, my mind struggling to put the pieces together. Hitchcock had a point—there was something about Merrifield's involvement in the Jacobite cause that seemed too perfect, too calculated to be mere happenstance. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the Jacobite cause, with all its rebellions and secrecy, could have been a powerful motivator for someone like him—a man driven by bloodlines, history, and a thirst for revenge.

'Do you think there could have been more than one person involved in the murders?' Hitchcock asked suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. 'Perhaps someone else, someone we haven’t considered?'

I turned to face him, struck by the possibility. 'What are you suggesting?'

He shifted his weight, clearly hesitant. 'What if Merrifield wasn’t working alone? What if there was someone else behind him, someone pulling the strings, directing him to carry out the murders?'

I paused, letting the idea settle into my mind. It was a chilling thought, but not an implausible one. Merrifield had been meticulous, too careful in covering his tracks. But could he have been the puppet instead of the puppeteer?

'The more I think about it, the more I begin to wonder if there’s someone else we need to look for', I said, finally. 'Someone who had the motivation and resources to manipulate Merrifield. Someone with access to the right circles, someone who could have guided him in his mission'.

Hitchcock looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern. 'Do you think this is the final piece of the puzzle, sir?'

I nodded slowly. 'I do. I think we've only seen the surface of this case. There’s someone else out there, someone who has been orchestrating these events from the shadows. And I intend to find out who they are'.

Hitchcock’s face grew serious. 'Then we’ll find them, sir. Together.'

I felt a small measure of comfort at his words. The road ahead was uncertain, and the dangers of the investigation still loomed, but for the first time in days, I felt as though we were closer to the truth. There was still work to be done, still questions to be answered. I trusted Hitchcock's diligence, and I knew he would find the answers once I left the area.

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