If there is one thing I dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when I wish to air mine. -- P. G. Wodehouse, Love Among the Chickens

They discussed the situation after breakfast.

"So," Yo-han said. "I take it you want me to prove your innocence and catch the real culprit."

Colman nodded. "When you catch them, don't bother handing them over to the police. I can deal with them myself."

Yo-han looked at him. He raised an eyebrow. Colman looked back. One of his eyebrows was naturally higher than the other, giving the impression he was copying Yo-han.

What was the point of trying to lecture an assassin on the morality of killing people? Yo-han gave up and moved on. "An alibi will be helpful."

"Not for me," Colman said with a too-bright smile. "At the time of the murders I was in Italy, killing my father."

Stunned silence fell. Yo-han's instinctive reaction was to recoil in horror. His stronger reaction, born from years of dealing with the most deranged family dramas imaginable, was to sigh wearily.

"Why," he said flatly, not even bothering to turn it into a question.

Colman shrugged. Beneath his flippant attitude and forced smile there was a mask of defiance. Beneath it was something Yo-han recognised only too well: grief mixed with the knowledge that something had been done too late. That some things could never be fixed.

"He killed my mother. I don't mean he literally shot her or stabbed her or threw her in a well, but he killed her just the same."

Yo-han suddenly understood Colman's motives perfectly. Hate could drive people to do terrible things, but grief could drive them even further.

Colman spoke as if he couldn't get the words out fast enough. "She was fifteen and he raped her. Then he sold her to a brothel because of me, because my existence would reveal his sins.

"Some of the women managed to buy their way out of the brothel. Mother never could. All of her money went to keeping me alive. The madam wanted to sell me out to customers who liked children. My mother refused, so she had to pay the madam extra from her earnings. Someone gave her syphilis. It rotted her brain until there were times when she didn't recognise me.

"Eventually her disease was too obvious, so the madam kicked us out. I begged and stole to keep us in a filthy room that we shared with a hundred rats. It was no use. She died when I was eleven.

"I killed a man for the first time when I was twelve. He wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

"Standing over his body, I decided I'd make something of myself. I took his money and bought myself new clothes. Gave myself a new name. I'd always been good at lying and imitating accents. I lied my way through school and into the theatre. Along the way I discovered killing for money was an easy income.

"I knew my father's name from what my mother told me, back when she could still remember her past. I've tracked him down for years. Finally I caught him and killed him."

Colman smiled. It looked like a skull's grin. "There you have it. The disreputable life of Leopold Colman. Or possibly John Peter McIlwee. I don't know for certain what my mother named me."

Silence stretched between them. Yo-han had never given much thought to Colman's past. He had certainly never expected to see a dark reflection of himself in it.

It had been years since he'd allowed himself to think too much about his worst mistake. He had to live with the consequences every time he saw his father. No need to drag it up even more. The last person he would ever have thought of telling was a foreign assassin. Yet somehow that was exactly what Yo-han found himself doing.

"I accused my father and stepmother of murdering my mother."

Colman looked at him as if he'd sprouted wings. He opened his mouth. Yo-han continued before he could speak.

"My mother was my father's primary wife. Their marriage was arranged. He preferred his secondary wife. I knew he wanted to replace my mother with her. But he couldn't divorce my mother or demote her[1].

"When I was eleven my mother became sick.

"The doctors couldn't help her. For a year she got worse and worse, and no one would tell me what was wrong. Then she died. After a suitable mourning period, my father quietly made my stepmother his primary wife in all but name."

Even years later, even though he knew he'd been mistaken, Yo-han couldn't help feeling bitter about how quickly his father had moved on. Colman listened silently, clearly waiting for the point to this story.

"I thought about it for three years. I'd already decided I was going to be a detective. I tried to gather evidence. Finally, when I was fifteen and just after my half-brother was born, I accused my stepmother of poisoning my mother. I thought my father had to be in on it too, but I couldn't prove that. I believed I could prove my stepmother's involvement. She'd bought weedkiller before my mother first became ill. She'd helped my mother take her medicine. I was so sure...

"And I was wrong. My mother died of cancer.

"It was proved, again and again, by every doctor who'd treated her. For over a year I refused to believe them. I was convinced it was all my stepmother's fault. Finally I realised I had convinced myself because it was easier. You can hate a person who deliberately killed someone else. How can you hate a disease?"

He paused. Colman said nothing. Yo-han didn't look at him. He didn't want to find out what he'd see.

"So you see," he finished, "you're not the only person with an unhappy past. The difference is that most people don't become murderers because of it!"

"I think my past is worse than yours," Colman objected.

Yo-han took a deep breath and reminded himself that it would be rude to throttle a guest. "It's perfectly understandable that you became a thief. It's justifiable that you killed a man in self-defence. But you have no excuse for becoming an assassin! You could be the next Henry Irving and instead you're keeping detectives all over the world in regular employment!"

Colman opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. He shrugged. "Anyway, what about the Hastings murders?"

Colman clearly subscribed to the 'when unable to answer, change the subject' school of thought. Yo-han went along with it, partly because trying to teach morals to an assassin was a waste of time and partly because discussing the murders was rather important.

"Tell me everything you know about them," he said.

"Virtually nothing," Colman said. "Mr. Hastings was some sort of diplomat. His wife was... Chinese? Maybe? They had three children. They were killed about a week before they were found. And that's it." He blinked in confusion at Yo-han's shaken expression. "What's wrong?"

It was a coincidence. It had to be. Hastings was a common surname in England. Surely there was some other Mr. Hastings who had been a diplomat in East Asia and had married a local woman.

"You're sure his wife was Chinese?" Yo-han asked. His voice seemed to come from a long distance away.

Colman shook his head. "Not necessarily Chinese, but from somewhere around here. Her picture was in the paper. Oh, and there was another detail that proves I didn't do it. Or would prove it, if any of those idiot policemen bothered to study my methods. The killer cut off a finger from each victim. Took two from Mrs. Hastings, for some reason. When have I ever done that? It's just grotesque."

"Taking souvenirs," Yo-han said automatically, while his mind was on something else entirely. "Commonly seen in serial killers. They take something of their victim's — hair, clothes, a tooth, or in this case a body part — to remind them."

Colman looked at him oddly. "Are you all right? You sound... Well, I know it's a disgusting crime, but we've seen enough death that it shouldn't affect us."

Yo-han's mouth seemed to move without consulting his brain. "My cousin married an Englishman. His surname was Hastings. He was a secretary at the British Embassy."

To do him justice, Colman looked as shaken as Yo-han felt.

"It's probably not the same Hastings," he said. It sounded even less convincing from him than it had in Yo-han's head.

Someone tried to kill him and Hyeon-su. Now his cousin was possibly... Yo-han had once thought his house was cosy. Now it felt oppressive. The walls seemed to trap him inside. Like a cornered mouse waiting for the cat to strike...

"We've got to get out of here," he said.

Colman accepted this without question. "Probably not a good idea to go back via Siam. Someone will be looking for me there."

Yo-han had meant to get out of Seoul specifically. He hadn't had time to think of going any further. Now that Colman mentioned it, he saw that they might as well go to England. That was where the murders had been committed. That was where the evidence would be found.

If Mrs. Hastings was Seo Eun-a, that was where her body was buried.

A finger taken from each body. Except Mrs. Hastings, who had two fingers taken. Patterns were always important in crime. Deviations from patterns much more so. The killer had no need of two souvenirs from one victim. Which meant...

Yo-han felt like a bucket of icy water had been poured over his head.

"How long ago were the murders?"

"October last year."

October. Now it was February. Even allowing for the time it took to travel between England and Korea...

As if on cue, the phone rang. Yo-han got up. The short walk from the living room to his study seemed to stretch endlessly.

Yo-han picked up the phone. With a sickening sense of dread he said, "Yes?"

It was a relief to hear Hyeon-su's voice at the other end. Then he said what he was calling about, and the dread returned. "Someone's sent a package for you to our house. Do you want me to send it on to you or will you collect it?"

"I'll collect it," Yo-han said, feeling sick. He was terribly afraid that he knew what was in the package. "What... What sort of package is it?"

Hyeon-su made a thoughtful noise. "A box wrapped in paper. It smells like a chemistry set. It was posted in..." There was the sound of rustling paper, "Bombay last week. The address is written in English and hangeul." Yo-han could practically hear Hyeon-su thinking of every detail he might possibly need to know about the package. "I don't hear anything moving inside when I shake the box. It's small. Should I open it?"

"No!" Yo-han snapped, more sharply than he intended. He took a deep breath. In a calmer voice he continued, "I'll be there in about an hour. Do not open the box. Tell the servants to keep an eye out for strangers loitering around."

~~~~

It was later than Yo-han had expected when he and Colman arrived at Judge Seo's house. They had been delayed by a disagreement over clothing. Yo-han had insisted there was nothing more conspicuous than a foreigner in Western evening dress being driven around Seoul in broad daylight. Colman agreed, but pointed out that he didn't have any spare clothes. Yo-han had suggested loaning him an old suit. Colman had reminded him that Yo-han's clothes would be too small.

They had finally reached a compromise. Colman still wore his own clothes, but he had taken off his jacket and had Yo-han's oldest and heaviest winter coat draped around his shoulders. He had also borrowed Yo-han's spare glasses, briefly. For less than a minute, to be exact, because Yo-han was far-sighted and Colman was not.

If Yo-han's father happened to be home, he would have some very cutting things to say about the people Yo-han associated with. In fact he would probably be more appalled at Colman's appearance than the fact he was an assassin.

Yo-han kept that thought in mind as he parked outside the gate. It was more amusing than what he expected to find in the house.

"Stay here," he said.

"Wasn't planning on moving," Colman said through gritted teeth.

Climbing into the car had aggravated his wounds. He was pale and sweating. If they had more time, Yo-han would have taken him straight to the nearest doctor.

Unfortunately they didn't have time. Yo-han could only leave him in the car and hope his wounds weren't bleeding again.

Hyeon-su was waiting for him. He had placed the box on the table. He was looking at it as if he expected a snake to leap out of it and bite him.

"It smells worse since I shook it," he said.

Yo-han could tell. It stank of vinegar and something else, something horribly reminiscent of rotting meat.

He scanned the postmark — Bombay, which meant the sender had almost certainly been on a ship, which fit with the length of time he had calculated — and address for clues. Yo-han's name and his father's address were written entirely in hangeul, while "Seoul, Korean Empire" was written in English. Probably for the benefit of the postal workers in Bombay, who wouldn't have recognised hangeul. No hanja, which might have meant the writer was born after or shortly before 1895[2], or might have just meant he preferred hangeul.

There were no more clues on the outside. All that remained was to open it.

"Stand back," Yo-han warned as he began to undo the string.

Hyeon-su moved closed to the window. Yo-han opened the box.

It contained a small glass jar. Inside was a severed human finger.

Chapter Footnotes:

[1] All of this information comes from Wikipedia's article on Marriage in Korea, specifically the section on the Joseon period. If anyone reading this knows more about the subject and spots any mistakes, please tell me!

[2] Korean school textbooks began to use hangeul in 1895. Before that they used hanja (Chinese characters used to represent Korean words).