Cracked timbers. Rotting remains. Exposed and tarred metal beams. Loose wiring hanging from every possible orifice of the near crumbling entrance. The smell of sweet magnolias drifting in from across the street brought a harsh contradiction to the scene in the detached old Georgian house.
It was the third inconclusive fire Joe had inspected in the past seven days. All the fires had occurred within four square miles of the city centre. Something was beginning to smell, and it wasn't the stench of water damaged debris.
"Inconclusive initial evidence of foul play," read the lead officer's report from the night previous. Joe flicked through the preliminary photographs. The Chief on scene was a good man and third generation firefighter. He knew his stuff inside out.
Joe entered a familiar scene. He was one of only three fire investigation officers in the greater Dublin area. He had put in the hard time as a firefighter himself, but decided after twelve years of putting them out - he wanted to know what started them in the first place.
He stepped carefully through the remnants, making notes on a small notebook. He felt a distinct chill in the air of the front room, despite the muggy July evening. He inspected the electrical outlets first, avoiding the wires that protruded from their caging. Water continued to drip here and there. Puddles gathered in corners of the first floor. In the far corner of the study, one puddle was frozen over. Joe rubbed his temple with the onset of a headache, probably due to dehydration.
Only the first floor had been badly damaged by the fire. Joe crept slowly onto the second floor of the Georgian house. The staircase creaked and the red carpet squelched stickily underfoot. As he entered the rooms upstairs, he heard a noise downstairs. A metal ping. Like an old typewriter. Shouting ‘hello’ and hearing nothing back, Joe continued his investigation. His ears popped suddenly.
Finding no evidence of the fire upstairs, Joe went back down. He checked the four rooms on the ground floor for any signs of accelerant. None seemed obvious. Joe looked for smoke and burn patterns. Old electrical wiring systems shorting out, was also discounted. This was consistent with the two previous fires. Fire starting on the ground floor. Point of ignition starting in multiple rooms, all in the centre of the room. His ears popped once again, this time hurting his head for a moment.
The fire seemed to burn over on itself, consuming all available oxygen within the rooms. Each room had the same signature. A knot began to develop in Joe's stomach.
As Joe considered his thoughts he noticed that the black hairs on his left arm were raised – but they weren’t on his right arm. He felt cold air on the nape of his neck. It was time to leave. He heard the ping again, just as he exited the gap from where the front door once stood.
Once outside, he rapidly began to sweat. He felt as if he was being watched, and not from the neighbours. Trying hard to dispel the notion of other worldly beings, he considered the evidence in front of him.
The doors were closed in all the rooms. This would have restricted the movement of the fire. Fresh oxygen would make the blaze grow faster and stronger. But this got hot and would have been fairly easy to contain. Joe consulted the Chief's report. It stated that the fire was under control within sixteen minutes. This was consistent with his initial findings. The pressure from his headache was rapidly building.
Joe wiped his brow from the heat of the setting sun. He grabbed his Ipad from the car and pulled up the reports from the previous two fires. Both followed the exact same pattern. Fires initiated on the ground floor. He heard the ping again, louder and more insistent.
But how would someone start a fire in multiple rooms, at the same time? Keeping doors closed so that the fire would not spread upstairs? As if to only damage the first floor? Joe scratched his head in despair – the heat and feeling of someone crowding him was muddying his thought process.
Glancing through the details of the two previous fires, he found the exact same details popping up again and again. Nothing electrical or suspicious jumped out at him. The ping sounded louder once again.
This was someone out for revenge. Trying to send a message. But who had this capability? Even the most skilled of arsonists would have trouble figuring out the complex logistics of such an elaborate scheme.
There was something here. Trying to get his attention.
Staring back at the now charcoal covered red brick at the front of the house, Joe saw a blue and white circular plaque to the left of the front door. The type of plaque that adorned the front of historic buildings.
That was it. His headache lifted. He felt taller and stopped sweating.
Joe scrambled through the pictures of both houses from the past week. They too had blue and white plaques. He hadn’t noticed them before. He didn’t consider them to be relevant.
They were all former homes of the poet and writer Theodore Priestfield. Joe had seen newspapers reports in the past few days, exalting his works. Bringing his name up on Google, it stated that the poet had died exactly one hundred years ago - today. It also mentioned the fire from the first house earlier in the week. The article went on to state that his four houses were now part of the Literary Bus Tour of Dublin.
Four houses?
Joe scrolled frantically through further archived articles. The fourth house was rebuilt entirely with money from the National Lottery. It had burnt down and was knocked for the public’s safety.
Joe read the urban myths at the bottom of the page. Theodore apparently did all his best works on the ground floor of all his abodes, in the study. His wife grew tired of his love toward his work and not her. She reputedly had many affairs with many young men of the Dublin social scene.
The myth continued to say that Theodore Priestfield was killed in a fire by one of his wife’s ex-lovers. In the only house still standing unscathed. That same house also was rumoured to be haunted. Even the Literary Tour seemed proud to mention this in their literature.
Joe quickly started the engine. The final piece of the article of the urban myths section sent a shiver throughout his body.
Theodore was killed in a fire that started at sundown.
Joe had seven minutes left.
