Casting Shadows

"Can you give us any comment on your latest triumph?" Camilla silently substituted the word 'triumph' for 'murder'. Outdated though the term was, she still liked to use it privately.

"The Brixham one?" Camilla nodded. Her older brother had covered the story; Ordinary murder made headline news by the popularity of the killer. And to think that she was interviewing him herself!

"There's nothing much to say." The restaurant was busy and the man had to shout although they were only a table apart. "My employer paid less than my average rate, but to be completely honest I haven't had a job for a while. It was the best I could get." He shrugged.

Camilla scribbled in her notebook, embellishing his statements a little because she knew her brother always did. So he was mercenary! Fantastic! Finally, a motive. She could see the headlines now.

"May I ask if you have a new employment yet?"

"You may ask," he said grandly.

Camilla waited, but he didn't continue. She asked him another question, leaning forward in her eagerness.

"We have 26 of your murders on record. Are there any more?"

The mercenary turned green, then red, and Camilla cursed herself for using the word 'murder' in front of him.

She had forgotten that murderers had a curious aversion to the word; they preferred to say they were 'playing God'. She herself preferred to plainly call it 'murder'. Despite religion's decreasing popularity, she still believed in God, and thought it was blasphemous.

Camilla apologised, but it seemed no good. The man excused himself and walked off.

Sitting alone at the table, surrounded by the ordinary bustle of a busy Saturday night, Camilla thought. She thought back to that morning, a week before.

Roddie (her brother Roderick) was out when the letter came. It had been addressed to him, with his name in big, printed letters. She really shouldn't have opened it, but she couldn't resist just one little peak.

The writer of the letter accepted Mr. Carlisle's invitation to a dinner interview, asking if it could possibly be delayed to the 2nd of June, as he had some urgent business on the date named?

It had been easy, Camilla thought, just to change the date from 2nd to 3rd, and wait for Roddie to come home.

She had felt a little guilty afterwards, but, she thought, it wasn't that bad, was it? It was about time for the spotlight to focus another Carlisle.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the waiter's return with their first courses.

"And where is your companion, Madam?" He asked.

She murmured something vague about something urgent coming up and said that he could take the second plate away, but to her surprise the mercenary reappeared.

"I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly. Could we possibly continue the interview?" he said. He sat down and gave her an apologetic, boyish smile. Just like his great-grandfather, thought Camilla absent-mindedly. (She had been researching his family history the night before, eager for the upcoming interview.)

She drew her chair closer and once again took out her notebook. "I'm the one who should apologise. I was rude. I'm very sorry for offending you."

There was an uncomfortable silence as the waiter appeared out of nowhere to serve their second course.

When he had retreated, Camilla fired her companion a question.

"You said that you... Play God... By employment," she said, gently skirting around the forbidden word, "Have you tried any other types of - any other types?"

In her head Camilla reeled off the types: Mercenary, Gain, Mercy, Justice and the debatable fifth type, Passion. (Psychologists argued that Passion was a weak motive at most, with another of the five types behind it. Because of this, murderers who pleaded 'Passion' were considered weak in themselves.)

The man considered her question, then flushed. He spoke quickly. "Don't tell anyone about it, don't add it to your report and I'll tell you."

Camilla nodded, but her fingers already itched for her pen.

"I was young and irresponsible. No one was told... I strangled my first fiancé. And like the miserable worm that I was, when my parents heard of it and told me off (they were mercenary in their own way; My fiancé had been rich), I - I pleaded Passion."

Camilla choked down a gasp, then asked another question to cover it up. "When did you decide to become a mercenary?"

"I was 26. Significant, don't you think?" He continued without waiting for her answer. "I had tried various jobs, and eventually got one in a library, cataloguing.

I can't remember how, but one day I found an old one newspaper article on my great-grandfather. Believe it or not I'd never heard of him before.”

Camilla interrupted, “So you decided to become a – to play God, like he had, but for a living. And you took his method and stretched it to 26 – 26 times instead of his 4.”

The famous mercenary fiddled with his food. He looked at her oddly for a moment or two. “28,” he said.

“28?”

“Your earlier question. You asked if there were any more that weren't on record. I didn't answer; There were 2 more.” Camilla unconsciously shuddered.

“You're Roderick Carlisle's younger sister, aren't you?” The man asked irrelevantly. She nodded, looking down into her food. That was all anyone remembered her as.

The mercenary seemed to read her thoughts. “That's what you're known as, isn't it? You haven't been given a chance to be your own person, maybe to be famous on your own.” He smiled. “I know how that feels. Growing up I was overshadowed by my great-grandfather, and all I could see of him was the darkness that he cast on me.”

Camilla smiled back at him. It made her feel more comfortable to know they had that in common.

“You have to do something really amazing, really worth-while then, don't you? Something astounding that gives you your own light to shine. To cast your own shadow.”

They sat meditatively for a while, then her companion beckoned for a waiter. As the waiter weaved through the maze of seats to their table, the mercenary began again.

“I can see why my great-grandfather cast such a long shadow though. Imagine playing God four times, in a world where it was considered a crime. You had to be secretive about it, and extremely clever, or you were found out and hanged.” There was a light in his eyes that made Camilla shiver.

The waiter reached their table, and her companion whispered something to him that Camilla couldn't quite hear. She leant forward inquisitively and only just heard the waiter's reply. “Not in our restaurant please, Monsieur. Perhaps if you went outside? The night is not so busy.”

The mercenary turned to Camilla with a boyish grin, and she shrank back into her seat, only to rise again as he suggested for them to go outside.

The air was warm, with a faint, pleasing tingle. Camilla breathed it in deeply. Much better than the stuffy air inside!

“Camilla Carlisle of Churston,” said her companion. Then he repeated it. Camilla turned towards him.

“Yes?” she said.

He laughed, and his voice echoed along the empty street. “It's an alliterative name. A nice one.” He repeating it, staring vacantly at the house opposite.

Then he put a hand on Camilla's shoulder and faced her. She felt goose bumps prickle her skin like small thorns.

He reached out his other hand and clutched her throat. She couldn't breath, and the world slowly dissolved to black.

***

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