In the darkness, and dampness, David wondered why he’d been given such a strictly starched uniform. The only people around were the prisoners, most of whom slept in these wee hours.
He wondered why this prison was named Seagate. It wasn’t particularly close to the sea. Closer than the town, he supposed, so it made some sense. The canal nearby must have had something to do with it.
He wondered why Paula had lied to him. She’d said he muttered in his sleep. He must be dreaming since he muttered in his sleep. Only he wasn’t sleeping, was he?
He wondered how long he’d been sitting in this alcove, in this hallway, wondering all there was to wonder. His entire world consisted of a low-burning oil lamp, a wooden table with two kitchen chairs, and the murmurs of slumbering prisoners. Another patrol would do him good, he decided. Like walking the streets in the Guard. Only cold, and wet, and filled with echoes from stone halls.
David was about to stand when he heard a metal gate swing on its hinges. The entryway to this wing of the prison. Every hall of the old castle has been blocked off with iron bars, just like the cells. He leaned in his chair to have a look. A lantern was coming his way, held in a hand with a starched cuff. Leather bootsteps marked its progress in echoes. They belonged to a guard he did not recognize, a man about his own age, fair, kindly-looking, who sat down at his alcove table without an invite. Two lamps burned in tandem on the tabletop.
“David,” said the newcomer. He was quiet, careful to let the prisoners sleep.
“Yes?” whispered David. The man offered his hand across the table.
“Jacob Holbrook. I’m the graveyard supervisor.”
“Oh. Thomas said you’d be by.” He shook Jacob’s hand.
“Well, it’s my job, isn’t it? Being by,” said Jacob, smiling. “How’s your shift been? Did you find everything alright? Any problems?”
“No, no problems. It’s been quiet.”
“Good, we like that.” Jacob tilted his head, the smile still beaming. “Must be quieter than the Guard, I imagine.”
“Er…compared to certain days, yes.”
The newcomer chuckled at this. “I’m sure you’ve got a story or two to tell. Would you like anything? A break? Something from the kitchens?”
“Oh. Thank you,” said David, “but I was just about to have a walk. I thought—“
He was interrupted by a distant shout. He leaned to see down the hallway again; Jacob turned in his seat. Voices and scuffles drifted up from the lobby like a fine mist.
“That would be the Elite,” murmured Jacob. “Excuse me, David. I wasn’t expecting them so soon. I’m sorry to run away.”
“That’s alright,” said David, but his replacement supervisor was already hurrying back towards the gate, lantern light bobbing. David stood, ready to set off on his patrol, when he realized he hadn’t heard the gate lock behind Jacob. He had keys. He figured it was best to keep as many locks locked as possible in a prison.
As he removed his new keyring from his trouser pocket, he picked up a few words of the conversation in the lobby. He paused to listen with his hand on the key and the key in the lock.
“…anybody looked at it?” he heard Jacob say.
“It’s patched up just fine,” said a deep drawling voice. “We’ll have the doctor come by in the morning. For now he’s busy with the half-dozen of my men that got doused in boiling ointment.”
“Oh, my,” said Jacob. “That sounds—“
David flinched at the sudden shout that followed, rattling his keyring.
“They got what they deserved!” This female voice was deafening, scratched by apparent overuse. “Should have been the fucking lot of you! I hope they’re scarred for life!”
“Miss van Allen,” said the drawl calmly, “this is an occupied facility. And it’s late. I imagine some people are tryin’ to sleep. Call me names if you like but please think of your neighbours.”
“Fuck off!” came the reply, though, to the drawl’s credit, it was quieter.
“You have a cell ready, Mr. Holbrook?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Belvedere. To your specifications exactly. I promise she’ll be as isolated as…”
David realized too late that the voices were louder, the footsteps closer, the lantern light filling the corridor once more. He left the gate unlocked, ripping out his unused key in a flash and stuffing the ring back in his pocket. Not knowing what else to do, he opened the gate for the approaching party and held his lantern high.
Jacob turned the corner first, leading a tall hulk of a man with two giant pistols slung on his hips. A young woman, her hands bound behind her back, followed him. She had one man behind her, armed similarly to the hulk, and two on either side holding her arms. Jacob smiled as he saw his fellow guard at the gate.
“David, thank you,” he said, hurrying past the bars. “I’ll be back in just a moment, alright?”
“Sure,” said David. The Elite Forces men paid him no mind as they approached. The woman, however, did. Not a nice part of her mind, judging by her glare. They locked eyes for a second over the shoulder of her nearest escort.
In that second, she spat. David was quick enough to close his eyes, but not to raise his hand.
“Hey!” snapped one of her three handlers. The one in behind grabbed her by the scruff of her dress and gave her a shove forward. Jacob and Mr. Belvedere turned to see David wiping shining spittle off his face. Mr. Belvedere riveted on his prisoner. He bent down to look her in the eye.
“I’d ask you to apologize, but I know you won’t,” he said lowly. “So I’ll ask you to give me the same, instead. You wanna stick it to the man? Well, I’m the man.”
She didn’t. She only glared, panting. Mr. Belvedere nodded at David.
“He’s just doin’ his job. There’s nothin’ brave about givin’ him attitude.”
“Get fucked!” shouted Guinevere, loud enough to elicit some stirrings from the cell block. Mr. Belvedere remained silent. He stood straight and crossed his arms.
“David, are you alright?” whispered Jacob. David scrubbed away the last of the gob onto his freshly starched sleeve.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, still numb with surprise. “Of course.”
“Let’s go,” said Belvedere, turning his back on the prisoner. Jacob led him on, with one last look of concern over his shoulder at David. The three escorts hustled Guinevere away, her head now bowed, her eyes shut.
Still feeling slightly sticky, and needing it now more than ever, David set off on his patrol.
Still feeling slightly sticky, and needing it now more than ever, David set off on his patrol.
The last few days had not been easy on Captain Bossard. He would not have had it any other way, as it was in the execution of his duty, but he was starting to feel it catching up with his body. There were too many unknowns for him to start slowing down - did they have all the facts? Were there things the suspect had hidden, even from Alfie? Until he could be sure that the town was safe, he could not rest.
There was one thing of which he was absolutely sure, one thing that he had known as soon as he had learned that Guinevere van Allen was a witch; the inquisitors would come around. They had been the town council until the horrific attack on Steadney last year, which had been declared the work of a witch despite the only evidence being the skeletal charcoal briquettes of buildings and greasy drifts of ash eventually lost to the wind.
He’d been up late last night, waiting on word from Mr. Belvedere. Once it had come in the form of a suspect, he’d been up much later in the interrogation room. Bossard had hoped this morning would feel a little shorter, but his hopes were dashed when two councilmen entered his office. They had not knocked.
The Guard captain had been preparing to leave, a packet of papers under his arm, a full mug in his hand. As if sensing his intentions, the office door swung open. Bossard locked eyes with one, and the other, and sighed.
“Good morning, Mr. Harforth. Dr. Balmoral. How can I help you?”
“We are not the ones in need of help, Bossard,” said the doctor. “The victims of Steadney are much more deserving than us.”
“And yet, the captain of the Blankston Guard ignores their plight!” said Mr. Harforth.
Bossard took a deep breath. Arguing never worked on the council. They were a storm one simply had to weather.
“How have I ignored their plight this time, Mr. Harforth?”
“By ignoring us, as usual! The very people trying to bring them closure.”
“Someone has to, you see,” added Dr. Balmoral.
“How long were you going to wait to tell us about this case?” demanded Harforth.
“You already seem to know about it,” said the captain.
“We do, Bossard - second-hand,” said Balmoral. “The Steadney inquest expects to have its reports on possible leads direct from law enforcement.”
“I see. To which leads in particular do you refer? Just so I can correct my mistakes.”
“It is our understanding, captain, that explosives were uncovered in the basement of town hall. We’ll start there, with an abundance of gunpowder.”
“Targeting a municipal centre of business,” observed Mr. Harforth.
“Even the time of year matches up,” said Balmoral. “Are we going too fast for you, Julian?”
“Doctor, this is—“
“Why were we not informed? How are we to bring justice to the perpetrators of the Steadney massacre if law enforcement keeps us in the dark?”
“Or,” added Mr. Harforth, “if they hide suspects from us?”
“I would call that highly suspicious,” agreed the doctor. “Why were we granted custody of one conspirator and not the other?”
“Granted. Custody.”
These two words cut through all others. Even from the door, Mr. Belvedere’s voice filled the room like the toll of a church bell.
“My, but we do need to talk,” he sighed, as he came forward. The councilmen instinctively made way, small lean waves parting before a thick oaken hull. Mr. Belvedere handed the packet of papers tucked under his arm to Captain Bossard.
“Your dispatches, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Belvedere,” said Bossard, as he set them aside on his desk. The Elite Forces man fixed him with a smirk.
“I have asked you upwards of one thousand times, captain, to call me Ambrose. I’m running out of patience.”
He had already, it seemed, as he turned on the suddenly silent councilmen.
“Two things,” he said. “First, the young lady whose custody you seek has not been charged with a crime. She is to be assessed in short order to determine any such charges and might I say, the order would be much shorter if I didn’t have to pause and explain due process to you. If she is to be charged, it would likely be as an accessory to treason. A crown offence to be tried with crown justice and therefore none of your concern. Second,” he dropped his voice, “Miss van Allen is not in your custody. She was never in your custody. I am allowing your officers at Seagate the privilege of assisting the currently understaffed Elite Forces by serving some guard duty. She remains my responsibility until I turn her over to the courts at Carrabon. Am I goin’ too fast for YOU, sirs?”
“Not at all,” assured Harforth with haste.
“Excuse us, Mr. Belvedere,” said the doctor calmly. “We appear to have misunderstood.”
“Well, now,” said the Elite Forces man. “Aren’t you just so polite to the big ol’ bear with the crown on his arm! Now, is there any other business with which I may assist you?”
Harforth, realizing he was the target of a man with much more political sway than himself, shrank back. He looked to Balmoral for help.
“No, thank you, Mr. Belvedere,” said the doctor. “I believe we have what we came for. We must attend to other affairs today. If you would excuse us…”
“I won’t,” said Belvedere. The councilmen paused, each turned halfway to the door. “I have some business with which you can assist me. Surely, you have time to help the Crown?”
Dr. Balmoral met his gaze, and did not break it.
“Of course,” he said, chin held high.
“That’s what I like to hear, sir. Speaking of things I hear, your copper-headed friend told me something very interesting last night. When I asked him how he’d learned of an Elite maneuver, he said he’d heard, and I quote, ‘the inquisitors whispering’. Now, if I’m not mistaken, that would be you and your fellow councilmen. What I need to know is how you, any of you, had prior knowledge of a classified operation.”
“We did not know the details, Mr. Belvedere. That something was happening, however, was clear as day. The Guard does not lock down a building, especially one as vital as town hall, without good reason. To then have the Royal Elite arrive…quite frankly, you couldn’t have made it more obvious that a criminal operation was afoot.”
To his surprise, as well as Mr. Harforth’s, as well as Captain Bossard’s, Mr. Belvedere ignored his snippy attitude.
“Fair enough. We were a bit hard to miss, weren’t we?”
“Er…yes. You certainly were,” agreed Balmoral.
“That does not explain,” continued Belvedere, “why Sir Roger was given permission to join said operation.”
“Ah. He was not,” assured the doctor. “I’m afraid he took that initiative himself. The inquest will talk with him about that, I promise you.”
“I’m glad. Now, he’s the one callin’ himself a witch hunter, correct?”
Balmoral’s cold demeanour iced over a little further.
“We have asked him not to,” he said, slowly and carefully.
“I’m also glad. I’ll ignore, for the moment, his vigilante ways, if you’ll follow my logic. However reprehensible the idea of witch hunting may be, he was there last night to do so. He believed the gunpowder plot in question to be the work of witches. From where would that idea have come?”
“I could not say. Our councilmen would never suggest such things without good reason. We hold inquisitions for suspected criminals, not witches.”
“Yet, Seagate is entirely stocked with women known to be such.”
Dr. Balmoral had no hair. Not enough, anyway, to stand up like a bristling cat’s. His manner tensed regardless.
“We can’t help that, can we?” he snipped. Mr. Belvedere gave him a sideways appraisal.
“Hm,” was his only response. The doctor sighed so low it was almost a growl.
“I’ll have you know—“
“I’ll have you get out of this office,” said the Elite Forces man. “Both of you. I have a full day even without your prattling. We have an interview to conduct ten minutes ago, Julian. I bid you good morning, gentlemen.”
Harforth nearly ran out the door. Balmoral followed at a cooler pace, still vibrating, but relieved to have the eye of authority turned away. Belvedere shut the door firmly after them, and turned to the captain, who was staring in disbelief.
“When did you have occasion to speak with Sir Roger last night?” asked Bossard numbly. Mr. Belvedere put up his hands in surrender.
“Julian, it’s fine. He tagged along, that’s all.”
“You never told me he was with you!”
“I didn’t know he was, sir, until he nearly shot my ear off. He joined our party without my knowledge and most assuredly without my consent.”
“What did he do? I swear to…” Bossard cut himself off with a deep breath.
“It’s fine,” repeated Belvedere. “No one was hurt. Badly,” he added as an afterthought. His tone did not escape the Guard captain.
“It was him, wasn’t it,” sighed Bossard. “He shot her through the hand.”
“If he hadn’t, I would have,” assured Belvedere. “She was gonna light the place up. It had to be done and I don’t care that he did it.”
“I care. I care that a civillian is running around thinking he has the law behind him. And I care that the Royal Elite would encourage that behaviour.”
“Julian,” said Mr. Belvedere. The surrender had run out. “I did not encourage him. He got a talkin’-to after he’d served his purpose. If he had gotten in over his head I woulda drowned him, you understand? He only dipped in his toes, and that’s fine by me.”
It was clearly not fine by Bossard, but he kept quiet.
“Once we have Miss van Allen tucked away,” said Belvedere, “we can start in on Lord Blank. And after that I’ll have a lawyer or two pay a visit to town council. For now, we have other business.”
Marigold had been around guardsmen before. Her father had been escorted by them both to and from the house on a number of occasions during her childhood. Her mother had been spoken to dozens of times in relation to these and other indiscretions. Crimes in the surrounding counties could often be traced back to Marigold’s hometown. The Guard were a regular fixture on the streets.
She had never been the focus of their attention, however. It made her more uncomfortable than she’d imagined it would. Marigold only had one response to discomfort: staying quiet, looking to the floor, trying to appear as small as possible. She had sat up all night in the guardhouse’s single holding cell doing exactly this. She felt more tired than she ever had before, but sleep was an impossibility.
After the sun had risen, she’d been escorted to this bland grey interrogation room. There were no windows, only unblemished walls. A table and three chairs. A door that had been locked after her. After a few minutes it opened again.
The first man she did not recognize, but he was clearly high up on the Guard’s chain of command. His badge and breastplate were the shiniest of all the guardsmen. He was young, not much older than herself, it seemed.
The man that followed him made her look down again. It was the man from Guinevere’s cellar, the big one that had tried to be kind while aiming a crossbow at her. He carried no weapons today, at least not in this room. In a plain white shirt, his physique provided all the intimidation he needed. The muscles on his arms were as large as her entire head. He closed the door behind him but did not lock it. He sat at an angle to her, allowing the guardsman the chair opposite.
To her surprise, he was not the one who spoke. The guardsman, after setting down his stack of books and papers on the table, looked to her with an awkward attempt at a friendly smile on his face.
“Miss, I’m Captain Bossard of the Blankston City Guard. This is Mr. Belvedere of the Royal Elite. He’s overseeing this investigation in conjunction with the Guard.”
Marigold made brief eye contact with Belvedere. Neither made a sound.
“I have several important statements to make before we start the interview,” continued Bossard. “Your full attention and cooperation is appreciated at this time. Do you understand what I’ve said?”
“Y-yes,” said Marigold, though she was unsure what most of that meant.
“Alright. To start: there are no charges against you at this time. Anything you say during this interview may be held as evidence against you if you are to be charged at a later date. Any statements given by you during this interview, if found to be falsehoods, may be grounds for an accusation of perjury. Do you understand this?”
“Yes…”
“You have the right to have a lawyer present during this interview. This is not required. It is your responsibility, at any time during questioning, to request legal counsel if you feel it is needed, and it is the responsibility of the Guard to procure said counsel for you. With or without counsel present, you have to right to refuse to answer a question for any reason. Do you understand these statements?”
“Uh…yes.”
“Statements given during this interview may be used in evidence pertaining to a criminal investigation currently underway. You will not be identified to the accused as the source of this information by any member of the Guard or the greater legal community. Though you may be asked to bear witness in court, in writing, or both, you have the right to refuse, and at no point will you be coerced to do so. Do you understand this?”
She nodded. The captain grimaced.
“Unfortunately, miss, there’s a technicality that says I have to have verbal confirmation. If you could say ‘yes’, that would be appreciated.”
“Oh. Uh, yes,” said Marigold meekly. She looked down at the table.
“Thank you,” said Bossard. His face softened immediately. “I’m sorry about that. It’s a legal formality. I promise the questions aren’t as intimidating as they sound. Before we begin, is there anything you need? Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you.”
“Would you be more comfortable with a female officer present?”
“Probably not,” she admitted.
“If you change your mind, if you need anything, please interrupt, and I’ll do my best to get it for you.” He waited until she looked up at him again. She was such a sweet, quiet little thing, big bright eyes shying behind curtains of long hair.
“Miss, could you state your name for me?”
“Marigold Baker,” she murmured. He should have asked her to repeat it loudly, but he didn’t want to. He wrote it down.
“Marigold, do you know a woman named Guinevere van Allen?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know Miss van Allen?”
“I’m…I mean, I was her apprentice. She was teaching me to be a witch.”
Captain Bossard’s fountain pen was flowing now. “How long was this apprenticeship?”
“A few months,” admitted Marigold, with a shrug. “I didn’t get very far.”
“What kinds of things were you learning?”
“Medicine, mostly. Setting broken bones, cures for stiff joints. Tonics for coughs and colds. Some midwifery, too. I helped deliver a few babies.”
Bossard smiled at this. “Lovely. Were you ever taught anything besides medicine, Marigold?”
The young lady thought about this for a moment.
“I learned a bit of cookery, I suppose. And gardening, of course, to see to the herbs we needed.”
“Nothing else?”
Marigold shook her head absentmindedly.
“Was weaponry ever a part of your instruction?”
The young lady’s eyes went wide.
“Weaponry?” she gasped. “Heavens, no! That isn’t witchcraft at all.”
“Do you have experience with firearms, Marigold? Pistols? Rifles? Incendiary devices?”
“No, I…” She trailed off. “Well, I did fire a gun once. Last night. It was awful. I didn’t like it.” She paused again, looking worried. “Am I going to be in trouble for that?”
“I don’t believe so. Did you hit anything?”
“Only a sack of grain. I was trying…trying to hit Sir Roger, though,” she admitted, before she could stop herself. She tensed as Bossard narrowed his eyes at her. Slowly, his head rotated to the man beside him.
“Julian, it’s fine,” muttered Mr. Belvedere.
“What is she talking about?” whispered Bossard, as if Marigold could not hear.
“If he hadn’t gone chasin’ after her, he woulda hung around gettin’ in my way,” said Belvedere. “It was for the best.”
The captain glared a moment longer. Then he scribbled something on his notepad. It was clear, even from Marigold’s vantage point, that it had been in capital letters. He forced a smile back on to his face as he looked up at her.
“That’s called self-defense, Marigold. You’re allowed that. But aside from last night, that’s it? You have no other experience with firearms?”
“No! Incendiary devices? Rifles? I can’t even imagine touching one. I could barely pick up that pistol. Why in the world would you suspect I had?”
Captain Bossard paused for a moment, tapping the end of his pen on his notepad. Mr. Belvedere spoke up without an invitation, not that he needed one.
“Miss Baker, the Guard uncovered a plot to destroy Blankston Town Hall. Dozens of barrels of gunpowder were found hidden in the basement. Unfortunately, we have reason to believe that Miss van Allen is involved.”
Her wide, sad eyes got wider and sadder. Not in disbelief, Bossard noted, but in realization. Thought, not denial.
“Marigold?” prompted the captain. She looked up at him.
