The Hunt by Platon Lobach

The grandiose head of the lion on the wall stared at him with some kind of reproach.

His father killed this beast in Tanzania at the beginning of his career. At the time, every magazine was writing about brave Mr. Cler, the slayer of exotic beasts. Julian was the same age as the old man was at that time and the only paper that mentioned him was the late Mr. Cler's will. Now, at the ripe age of twenty and one years, Julian had in his possession a 300-yard estate, a cotton factory, and an unnamed sum of money in his bank account. He also had no clue what to do with all these luxuries, not to mention the unsolved case of his father's murder. 

 - Ah, dear Julian, my deep condolences. I am so sorry that all of us lost such a wonderful man! - shouted short, aged gentleman with a beard and a cane, throwing the hall door wide open.

- Mr. Vance, I am so glad to see you. The grudge of my father's death and the mystery of his killer's identity lie on my heart so hard. I sincerely do hope that your sharp wit will help me in this investigation.

- Oh, do not worry, young Julian, it is in my personal interest to find this bastard. I could not have imagined that last week's meeting with my dear friend Henry was the last time I would see him alive. Just to think about this tragedy, I have known him since childhood, we have hunted exotic animals in the heated summer at Kilimanjaro, and now I have to use my professional skills to solve his murder! God be good!

- God be good indeed, Arthur, - Julian replied, his voice tight. He gestured toward the velvet-draped window of the trophy room. - The police are baffled, but I am not. I suspect Thomas, the gamekeeper. They had a bitter row last week over poaching on the southern boundary. Thomas knows these woods, and he knows how to handle a rifle. Besides, he was the last man to see my father alive. Hunting a hunter after the hunt, what a cowardly move. Quiet, tired old man in his room, resting after the tiring activity of his youth.

Detective Vance nodded solemnly, tapping his cane against the polished floorboards:

- A hunter always knows his territory, Julian. Thomas fits the profile perfectly. Let us confront the man.

They found Thomas in the stables, his boots caked in mud, aggressively rubbing down a horse. When Vance stepped forward, his tone completely shifted from the grieving friend to the fierce investigator. He barked questions at the gamekeeper:

- Dear Thomas, my friend, tell me kindly, where were you last Saturday approximately at 9 o'clock in the evening, when your master got brutally shot in his chest?

- I was at the tavern in the village, Mr. Detective, and half the parish saw me there, -Thomas spat, refusing to flinch. - That is true that I had an argument with Mr. Cler before his sudden and tragic death, yes, but I’m no assassin. Ask Daisy, the kitchen-maid, she had an argument with Mr. Cler about her wages last week. Or butler James, he argued with Master all the time. Does that suppose to mean that they are killers too? 

- You have a point there, Thomas. Consider that I am not charging you with nothing, just asking questions. That is my job after all. But keep in mind that the killer will be found eventually, and the judgment will be fierce. Do keep in mind that, Mr. Stub. 

As Vance stepped closer to Thomas, pointing a wagging finger, Julian’s eyes drifted to the inspector’s hands. Vance was unconsciously using his thumb to scrape out bits of dark bark and sticky, green pine resin from beneath his fingernails. Julian frowned. Pine resin. It was a specific substance hunters used to mask their human scent when waiting for hours in tree stands. 

- That is enough, Arthur, - Julian interrupted softly. - Let us return to the house. I need a moment to think.

Vance gave Thomas a parting glare, and the two gentlemen walked back across the manicured lawn. While Vance went inside to pour himself a brandy, Julian slipped away to the gardens directly beneath the trophy room window.

He looked up. The window was twelve feet above the ground. A direct shot from below would have hit the ceiling. But his father had been shot cleanly through the chest while seated in his armchair. Julian turned around and looked at the ancient oak tree facing the window. There, on a thick, sturdy branch level with the window, the bark was freshly scraped. A smaller branch had been cleanly pruned away just a day prior, creating a perfect, unobstructed line of sight into the room. Julian touched the trunk. His fingers came away sticky with the exact same green pine resin he had seen under Vance’s fingernails.

The pieces fell into place with terrifying velocity. This wasn't a sudden crime of passion by a disgruntled servant. This was a carefully planned ambush, a classic tree-stand hunt. Thomas was a ground tracker; he hated tree blinds. But Henry Cler and Arthur Vance had spent a lifetime shooting from elevated stands. Furthermore, the killer knew exactly where the old man sat at nine o'clock each evening. Thomas had never been allowed inside the manor, but Vance had sat in that very room just a week ago.

Julian swallowed the lump in his throat, adjusted his coat, and walked back into the trophy room.

Vance was standing by the fireplace, sipping brandy, looking up at the lion’s head.

- We will catch Thomas, Julian. Do not worry.

- It takes a true master hunter to build a blind outside a man's own window, Arthur,- Julian said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.

Vance froze, the glass halfway to his lips.

- What do you mean?

- Thomas tracks on the ground. But you... you always preferred the trees, - Julian said, stepping closer. - I saw the pruned branch on the oak. I saw the pine resin on your hands, Arthur. You didn't come from London this morning. You were waiting in our woods last night.

The warm, grieving facade dropped from the detective’s face like a discarded mask. His eyes turned cold and predatory. He slowly set his glass down.

- Your father was going to ruin me, Julian, - Vance whispered, his voice devoid of any old-man frailty. - He found out I used his name to clear my gambling debts. He was going to the magistrate today. I couldn't let him destroy my reputation.

Vance’s hand slid smoothly into his coat pocket, his fingers wrapping around the grip of a small pocket pistol.

- A pity. You were supposed to inherit all of this. Now, it seems the tragic Cler family curse strikes again.

Vance pulled the trigger. But the gun did not fire. Vance gasped, pulling the trigger again, but the mechanism met no resistance.

Julian held up his left hand. Resting between his fingers was a small, metallic cylinder, the firing pin.

- I took the liberty of examining your coat while you were interrogating Thomas in the stables, Inspector, - Julian said calmly.

The heavy oak doors of the trophy room burst open, and Thomas stepped in, flanked by two local constables with rifles drawn.

Julian looked up at the lion on the wall one last time. The reproach in the beast's eyes was gone.

- Take him away, - Julian ordered. - The hunt is over.