The man tipped the brim of his fedora with one finger and gazed out at the scenery. The Sussex coastline stretched before him, bathed in the fading light. Seaford is a nice place, he thought. He might have liked to spend a few more days here if it weren’t for his mission. And there, silhouetted against the evening sky on a rugged cliff, was his target: Walter Fleming, a fifty-eight-year-old retired doctor.
Walter stood gazing at the sea. Sitting some distance away beneath a willow tree, the man in the fedora wondered what the old doctor was thinking.
When Walter had come here after his early retirement, he must have believed he was escaping to a life of peace. He must have thought that, by moving here with his wife, he had finally put enough distance between himself and his past.
But their retirement together had been brief.
One hot afternoon in June 2006, his wife died in their own bed. Walter had done everything he could to save her. So had the other doctors. But she had insisted on staying at home with the doctor she trusted most, despite his failings.
Since then, Walter had tried to remain active. Gardening and painting offered some solace, but it was his long walks along the coast that truly steadied him. Hours spent beside the sea, where nothing was expected of him and the sea itself said nothing. He liked it that way. He was a man hollowed out by grief, clinging to existence not out of hope, but defiance.
Most evenings, walking stick in hand, Walter would make his way down the hill and follow the coastal path until he reached an ancient beech tree standing near the cliff edge. From beneath its sprawling branches, he could see the sea stretching into the distance. He would sit there for hours, listening to the waves breaking against the rocks below as the setting sun cast its fading gold across the cliffs and water.
This evening was no different. Little did he know that his life was about to take a dark turn. For the past few days, one of the most dangerous men to ever walk the earth had been watching him.
The man in the fedora had done his homework. He could have approached the doctor on his first day in Seaford, but he had chosen instead to wait and observe him from a distance. He had found himself half amused by the old man’s routines and half concerned about what might happen if the doctor refused his proposal. Not that he had failed to make preparations for that possibility.
The doctor would agree, one way or another. He had no other options. Frankly, neither did the man in the fedora.
He let his mind wander through the strange chain of events that had brought him to this moment, a life so bizarre it sometimes felt like someone else’s story.
He wondered what might have happened if he had never chosen a life of crime, as that nagging detective had once urged him not to. What if he had never been brought to Sherrinford as a child to grow up an orphan? What if he had never become obsessed with uncovering his origins, never learned about the madman who had given him this life?
And what if he had never existed at all?
He shouldn’t have. He was an anomaly in every sense of the word. A mistake that had somehow survived.
And for that, he hated Him.
The bastard who thought he could play God.
His attention was brought back to the present moment by the dark clouds gathering overhead. A gust of wind swept across the coast, signalling an approaching downpour.
“Come on, Doc. Move,” he whispered.
As if he had heard him, Walter turned and began the walk home. The man in the fedora stood as well and, keeping his distance, followed.
Halfway along the path, the wind grew fierce, snapping Walter’s coat behind him. He clutched it with his free hand, his teeth gritted against the sudden chill. He quickened his pace, muttering a curse under his breath for leaving home without an umbrella.
The small hill where his house stood came into view just as the first drops of rain began to fall. On one side of the path, a grove of trees swayed violently in the wind, their shadows twisting beneath the fading light. Walter hurried on, but after a few paces, he stopped.
“Hey Doc!” a voice cut through the roar of the wind.
Walter turned, straining to see through the darkness and rain.
“Who’s there?”
The rain grew heavier, drumming against his coat. He shielded his face with one hand, but there was little point. Through the sheets of water, a figure emerged.
The stranger was in no hurry. He walked toward Walter with slow, measured steps, utterly unbothered by the storm. His hands were buried in his pockets, and his face was hidden beneath the brim of a fedora.
“Who are you?”
“Me?” The man stopped a few feet away. “I’m a fan, Doctor.”
Walter frowned.
“Can I help you?”
“As a matter of fact, you can!” The stranger laughed, as though they were sharing some private joke. “Boy, do I have a story to tell you. How about we step inside, make ourselves a cuppa, and get acquainted?”
Something about the stranger’s presence, his words, and that peculiar laugh irritated Walter. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the laughter stopped.
“Listen here, mister,” Walter snapped. “I don’t invite strangers into my house, especially cheeky ones. So why don’t you tell me what you want and make it quick?”
“Doctor,” The stranger’s voice had changed. The warmth was gone. He leaned forward slightly. Beneath the shadow of the fedora, his eyes were dark and unblinking.
“I need you to kill me,” he whispered.
A few weeks later, an unidentified headless body was discovered beside a small stream on the outskirts of Alfriston, a few miles from Seaford.That same day, retired doctor Walter Fleming was found dead in his home. The death appeared to be a suicide. The two incidents were treated as entirely unrelated by the local authorities. There was no apparent reason to connect them.
While Fleming’s death was quietly mourned, the discovery of the headless body drew national attention. Despite an extensive search of the surrounding area, the missing head was never found.
Then the autopsy reports came in. What they revealed sparked intense discussion and sent ripples through Police Scotland, attracting even greater attention there than the case had received at Scotland Yard.
David Stiller, one of the most intrigued officers in the Scottish city of Sherrinford, wasted no time. The moment he heard the news, he reached for his phone and contacted a certain individual.
“Hello, Chris,” David said into the phone.
He paused.
“It’s over. He’s dead.”
Another pause.
“The Count is dead!”