Hounds of Autumn by Heather Blackwood

moor, and the likelihood of it arriving in the town was small.
    “Hold on a moment,” she said. “If the hound were attracted to light or buildings, it may have ended up there of its own volition. It wouldn’t need to anticipate a burial for that.”
    “Perhaps not. But still …” He pulled his coat tighter around him and studied the bog.
    “What are you thinking?”
    “First, I am thinking that this isn’t a bog.” He brightened. “It’s a fen. See the stream going out? And note those sedges and rushes there? Bogs are acidic, but these plants couldn’t survive in such an environment.”
    He was ever the naturalist. But she was in no mood for him to change the subject. “And second?”
    “And second, I am thinking that it is possible that the hound killed her. Possible, I say. Not definite. That will be up to that inspector and the police to discover.”
    “Yes, and if they are twice as competent as the imbeciles at Scotland Yard, they could have the Ripper himself murder ten women, and the townsfolk would be speculating about angry spirits or churchyard grims—”
    “Or murderous mechanicals.”
    “Precisely. Everyone is more concerned with this fearful mechanical than with a real killer. Whoever he is, be he Mr. Granger or someone else, he must be as pleased as Mr. Punch with all this ridiculous speculation.”
    “You have to admit, it is a possibility that the hound killed her.”
    She threw up her hands and spun around to face him, but before she could reply, her eye fell on a rock that was different than the others. What was it? She tried to focus, to calm her mind as she did when examining the innards of a mechanical. Then she saw. It had no thin covering of moss on its side as did its brothers.
    “What do you see?” asked Ambrose.
    She bent over the place at the edge of the cairn where there were only a few stones and the furthest ones lay buried in the grass. Two feet from the end of the bank sat this odd stone, resting on its edge against the others. It was shaped like a very jagged octagon, flatter than the others, and the diameter of a serving platter. She tried to pull it, but its base was deep in a groove in the dirt. The groove was a foot long, and the dirt was disturbed. Her blood ran chill. This stone had been moved recently.
    She squatted and pulled up her skirts so as not to dirty them. She shoved the stone again, and it moved to the side, half-rolling and half grinding into the earth. Another push, and a hole behind it was revealed.
    Chloe heard Ambrose grunt as he lowered himself to see, but she was already reaching inside. Within the hole was a wooden box lid about a foot and a half long. It was shoved back like a drawer, and she pulled it out.
    Inside the lid were bits and oddments, three pieces of metal, some coins, colored glass, feathers, and some newspaper scraps. The scraps were not whole articles, but rather random samplings of pictures, text and edges. There was no order to them. It was as if a small child had torn them out.
    “They’re new,” said Ambrose after picking up a scrap. “But they’re badly crumpled.”
    “Do you see a date?”
    “No, but they aren’t yellowed. The paper fiber is not even warped by the moisture. These are fresh.”
    She rifled through cloth scraps, some smooth pebbles and turned over a coin. It was old and weathered and she could barely make out the face on it.
    “Do you still think it cannot think?” said Ambrose.
    “I don’t know. But if it can, then it’s all the more vital that I find it before the police do. They’ll only destroy it.”
    “If it harmed her, then it should be destroyed.” His voice behind her was soft.
    “But even if it harmed her, it cannot be held responsible. It doesn’t know right from wrong. It possesses no moral compass. And it isn’t like a vicious dog that must be destroyed because it will hurt someone again. It can be turned off, like Giles. And perhaps examined. That’s if the idiot police don’t