Dagger Magic

"We're definitely talking about something with a triangular cross-section," Dr. Gow observed, setting down her coffee mug. "In addition, the damage to the ribs at the point of entry suggests a degree of force more consistent with the penetrating power of a projectile weapon. The head injury was serious, but the wound was the proximate cause of death. There was virtually no fluid at all in the lungs. The man must have been dying even as he hit the water."

"Could the weapon have been some kind of spear - something like a harpoon, maybe? " Garda Sergeant Ryan asked. "We're working on the possibility that he and his partner ran afoul of illegal fishermen. It's the sort of weapon that might be used in a hot confrontation."

The two forensic surgeons exchanged glances. "That's not a bad guess, as guesses go," Macaulay said, "except that the wound itself is far too neat."

"A harpoon is barbed so that it won't come free without tearing the surrounding flesh," Dr. Gow pointed out. "Whatever implement made this wound came out as cleanly as it went in."

While the physicians and investigators continued to speculate, Peregrine quietly drew Adam and McLeod aside and showed them the drawings he had made of the dagger.

"This is what made the wound," he whispered, "though I obviously can't show it to them. I'm not sure what it is, though. Any ideas?"

McLeod gave a dissatisfied grunt and shook his head. "Beats me. I'd guess it's Oriental, though - or maybe South American."

"I'd vote for Oriental," Adam said, "but I don't pretend to be a expert on Oriental weaponry. Fortunately, there's someone in our immediate circle who is extremely well versed in Oriental artifacts - and I seem to recall something vaguely similar to this in one of her display cabinets. I think a call to Julian is in order."

"Aye, she'll know," McLeod concurred with a grim smile. "Or she can find out. Say, you don't suppose this is what Peregrine's ghost-monk was holding in his hand? Where are those photos, son?"

Opening his sketchbox, ostensibly to put away his sketch pad, Peregrine unearthed the best of the ghost-monk photos, with the blade-like extension between the monk's clasped hands.

"I think maybe that is what I was trying to see, when I took this shot," he said.

"I'd say you're probably right," Adam agreed. "And I'd say there's also an excellent chance that this is, indeed, the murder weapon. I'll certainly ring Julian before we leave here. And in the meantime, I wouldn't mind a look at that flag Somerville mentioned."

McLeod heaved himself to his feet with a nod. "I'll ask him about it," he said as Peregrine closed up his box. "Under the circumstances, I'm sure something can be arranged."

Somerville, when McLeod drew him to one side, proved as cooperative as predicted.

"Of course you can have a look," he murmured. "All Scanlan's personal effects are being stored in the local lockup until the procurator fiscal agrees to release them to the family. I've got to go along there anyway, to make my report. Why don't you follow me there?"

At the station in nearby Alexandria, Somerville showed McLeod and his associates into a side office and then disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a large storage carton with Scanlan's name affixed to it.

"I hope you won't mind if I abandon you for a few minutes," he told them. "I've got some phone calls to make. You'd think no one at headquarters can do anything, judging by the number of messages I've got waiting. Take all the time you want to go through this stuff. If you finish before I can get back to you, and you need to leave, just give a shout for the desk sergeant and he'll return the box to the safe. I've signed it out, so I'm responsible."

Most of the box was filled with Scanlan's clothing - his bright orange life-vest, the black-and-orange survival suit he had been wearing, the knitted black boiler suit that went underneath like long Johns, a few personal items from his inside pockets. Both suits had triangular tears in the back, though the sea had washed away all traces of his blood. Adam fingered the hole in the survival suit thoughtfully before laying it aside.

The flag was at the bottom of the carton, wrapped in a plastic bag. Pulling it out, McLeod shook out the folds of fine wool, stained by the salt water but otherwise as bright as the day it had been made. His expression was one of mingled fascination and distaste as he passed it to Adam for his inspection.

"I wonder if Scanlan did get this thing off a German U-boat," he murmured.

"I wonder, indeed," Adam agreed. "Peregrine, I don't suppose you can See anything that might be helpful?"

As Adam held out the flag, Peregrine found himself suppressing a shiver.

"Nothing immediate comes to mind," he whispered. "If you want, I suppose I could try handling it…."

"Don't, if it makes you uncomfortable," Adam said.

"No, it's all right."