If you have not already, please start here!
Jim Colroyne, whose councilman father had given him a job at the prison, went for help. He had partly volunteered, to escape the unsettling aura of a dead body; had partly been selected, for his fleetness of foot and familliarity with Dr. Balmoral.
The doctor had never married, had no plans to, and by extension had refrained from having children. His house was wildly out of proportion with his bachelorhood. It was a grand ivy-covered thing as close to the downtown core as it could get before the detached houses began to morph into townhouse rows. Jim’s lantern shook and swung as he hurried up Balmoral’s front steps in the absolute silence of 3am. Faced with the prospect of ringing a doorbell that time of night, his hurry faded, and he paused. But, he’d been told to. It had to be done. He pulled the woven cord before he could think himself out of it. After a minute, an orange glow appeared in the front windows, a candle coming to answer him. The doctor himself held it. His housecoat was the same purple colour as the rings around his tired eyes.
“James,” he murmured faintly. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to wake you, sir. It’s important. There’s been a…at the prison, uh…one of the prisoners has hung herself,” he spluttered.
Dr. Balmoral stood straighter, taken aback. He studied the young visitor in silence.
“Hanged,” he said, after a pause. “One has always ‘hanged’ oneself.” When this was met with incomprehension, he continued:
“When was this? Tonight?”
“Just now, sir. Not half an hour ago. She’s…gone, already. I don’t think you could save her, but, we didn’t know what else to do besides call for a doctor.”
“Of course,” said Balmoral, holding the door wider. “That was a fine choice, James. I’ll get it sorted out. Please, come in out of the cold. I’ll put some clothes on and get my bag.”
He shut the door after the young man, and slapped slippered feet on the foyer floor as he scurried for the stairs.
“Do you know the girl's name?” he called absently over his shoulder.
“Er…van Allen, sir.”
Dr. Balmoral stopped as if he’d hit a brick wall. He turned to face Jim head-on, one hand gripping the bannister, the other the flickering candle. The doctor stared at his visitor like an owl, one working on a pellet by the looks of it.
“The Town Hall Bomber?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you sent for Mr. Belvedere yet?” asked the doctor severely.
“No, er, should we? At this hour?”
“I wish I could tell you to wait until morning,” said Balmoral with a sigh. “There’s nothing he could do except fret himself silly. Unfortunately, he’s decided he has jurisdiction over van Allen, and the Crown stands behind him. I can say for certain he would not be happy to be delayed in his interference. He’s staying at The Lancer on Rijksback Avenue. Go, now. I’ll make my own way to Seagate and see you there soon.”
“Right,” agreed Jim, nearly running out the door. Balmoral set his own quick pace up the stairs.
Seagate Prison had not been his idea, he knew that much, though he could not recall who on town council had first suggested it. He still felt immense pride in it. They had come together to keep Blankston - nay, the country - safe. They’d created dozens of jobs from the town coffers; guards, cooks, and plenty of masons to keep the old castle running. Some called it illegal, even unethical, which made Dr. Balmoral wonder what they might call the senseless slaughter of innocents in Steadney. Yes, sometimes the inquisitors were a bit overzealous in who they arrested, or what they arrested for, but what price was that for safety? Each lead, however tenuous, was a step closer to finding the perpetrators of the Steadney massacre, and that’s all there was to it.
The silent, fearful stares of the four prisoners he passed on his way to Guinevere’s cell did his heart good. They had clearly started to reconsider their roles in the spread of anarchy and terror. Dr. Balmoral doubted he could ever stop the spread of quackery and confidence women, but satisfied himself by curbing the crimes they were wont to commit.
A half-dozen men were waiting for him outside her cell, lanterns ablaze. A few more sputtering lights had been hung along the corridor to light the doctor’s way. His bald head gleamed off them as he passed.
“Where is she?” he asked the group at large. Jacob Holbrook, the promising young supervisor, spoke up.
“Just here, sir. We, er, tried to help, but…”
“Say no more. I’m sure you did your best.” He followed the anxious Jacob to the door of the cell. The guard did not accompany him through, instead handing off the lantern he carried. Balmoral glanced at the shape on the distant cot, which had been covered with a wool blanket, then at Jacob.
“Let me know when Mr. Belvedere arrives. I sent James ahead for him.”
“Of course.” Jacob did not cast a look anywhere near the body as he went to rejoin his gaggle of guards.
Dr. Balmoral had never seen the face of the Town Hall Bomber. He pulled the blanket down to her waist, then set his lantern on the wooden edge of the cot next to her head. She looked like any other witch he'd ever seen, save for the circle of bruising around her neck. To be thorough he checked for a pulse. He pulled a small mirror out of his bag and held it over her mouth and nose for a perfunctory second before stowing it again. Better to say he’d tried. Assumptions were dangerous, especially in medicine.
He was about to reach into his bag for something to cut her clothes with when he heard footsteps in the corridor. Loud footsteps, large footsteps, approaching fast. Smaller, daintier footsteps, those of the guard gaggle, shuffled out of their way. Without turning to look Dr. Balmoral could only assume, dangerous as that was, that Mr. Belvedere had arrived as expected.
What was not expected was the single angry fist that seized most of the diametre of his collar, twisting it like the rope still hanging from the cell bars. The protests that tried to burst forth from the doctor were throttled in his chest. The scissors fell from his hand, clattering on the stone floor.
Mr. Belvedere half-dragged, half-carried Balmoral out of the cell and flung him against the wall opposite, so recently scrubbed of stew. The doctor deflected most of the impact with outstretched hands and turned on his assailant, barely able to catch his breath. Mr. Belvedere crowding him back against the stone did not help him do so.
“I knew you were stupid,” said the Elite man, low and deadly, “I didn’t think you were a criminal.”
Aware of the guards’ stunned attentions, Balmoral thought before he spoke. One hand quivered at his abused throat.
“What are you…talking about?” he gasped. “I’ve…done nothing wrong! A qualified…physician must make an examination and declare a time of death!”
“Under normal circumstances, that’s true. Prison is not a normal circumstance, especially one with a tenuous legal foothold. The death of a person in custody must be attended by a coroner before anyone touches the body, even a qualified physician such as yourself.” He prodded Balmoral in the ribs to make the point. “Until it can be proven otherwise, this is a crime scene, and you were tampering with it.”
Indignation had given way to fear on the doctor’s flushed face.
“Are you implying…something untoward has happened here?”
“I’m implying that there are protocols for best determining that. You, by stickin’ your fingers where they don’t belong, are implying yourself should any suspicion of wrongdoing be found; especially given that you and your cronies own the place. You’re gonna have a hell of a time in court if the coroner finds anything strange in that cell.”
He let that sink in before adding:
“Speaking of whom, he’ll be here any minute. You don’t leave this building until he says you can, do you understand?”
The doctor dropped his eyes to the floor. The Elite man felt a twinge of guilt for the neighbours, but some things just had to be done.
“Do you understand, doctor?” he roared. It ricocheted in the silent corridor. Balmoral got a handle on his flinch before the guards could notice it.
“Yes,” he muttered.
“What do you understand?”
“I stay here until the coroner says so,” he added, nonsensical with chagrin. Mr. Belvedere accepted it, and stood straight. He turned immediately to the sea of lanterns and sallow faces, focusing on one in particular.
“Holbrook, I presume you’re the commanding officer here?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jacob, stepping forward.
“Who found her?” asked the Elite man.
“Er. David, sir. We put him upstairs in the office. Thought he could use some space.”
“He doesn’t leave, either. Anyone who entered that cell since she was found or touched the body does not move until they’re told, am I understood?”
“Yessir.”
“The rest are permitted to return to their posts,” said Mr. Belvedere, pointedly. The fact that the entire graveyard shift was standing idly before him while the castle saw to itself was not lost on him. “Though the Crown would still appreciate that they not leave until given an all-clear.”
The sound of a coach pulling up out front punctuated that statement. Mr. Belvedere glanced at it, then back at the enraptured crowd.
The sound of a coach pulling up out front punctuated that statement. Mr. Belvedere glanced at it, then back at the enraptured crowd.
“I can’t stop you talkin’ about whatever you wanna talk about. If it were up to me, this mess would stay out of the papers as long as possible. All I ask if that you refrain from playin’ the judge until you know more. It’s not suicide or homicide or anything just yet. A woman is dead and that’s all anyone knows. Be careful how you comment."
The coroner of Blankston had appeared at the iron gate, escorted by the ever-faithful Jim. They made their way up the corridor to the impromptu gathering of men.
"Holbrook," said Mr. Belvedere, "you and any witnesses are to remain with Dr. Balmoral in the lobby for the time being.” He did not bother addressing the doctor directly. “The rest of you are dismissed; unless, of course, you feel you have a relevant detail to add.”
The coroner of Blankston had appeared at the iron gate, escorted by the ever-faithful Jim. They made their way up the corridor to the impromptu gathering of men.
"Holbrook," said Mr. Belvedere, "you and any witnesses are to remain with Dr. Balmoral in the lobby for the time being.” He did not bother addressing the doctor directly. “The rest of you are dismissed; unless, of course, you feel you have a relevant detail to add.”
None of them did, and all of them left, some down the main corridor, some down its perpendicular twin. The ones headed for the lobby swept Jim up in their current and their chatter, leaving the Elite man alone with the coroner.
Mr. Sandros looked like he had been aiming for ‘corpse’, and had missed slightly, landing on ‘coroner’. He was dour, untalkative, thin, and cold. His silver-pale skin and snappy dress did nothing to dispel the illusion that he had just walked out of a funeral home. He carried a black case similar to Balmoral’s, the latter still lurking in the darkness next to Guinevere’s cot. He stood silently before Mr. Belvedere, staring.
Mr. Sandros looked like he had been aiming for ‘corpse’, and had missed slightly, landing on ‘coroner’. He was dour, untalkative, thin, and cold. His silver-pale skin and snappy dress did nothing to dispel the illusion that he had just walked out of a funeral home. He carried a black case similar to Balmoral’s, the latter still lurking in the darkness next to Guinevere’s cot. He stood silently before Mr. Belvedere, staring.
“Through here,” said the Elite man, unperturbed by the phlegmatic prompt. He led Mr. Sandros to the door of Guinevere’s cell and no further. The coroner continued through, guided by the lantern still resting on the cot. He observed the fallen scissors, the half-exposed body, the short coil of rope resting by its feet, its other half hanging from the bars. He turned a silent question on Mr. Belvedere, one coiffed eyebrow raised.
“They called a doctor,” said the Elite man. “He thought he was in his rights to examine the body. When I arrived he was already proddin’ away at her. Dragged him out as fast as I could. He’s waiting with the rest of ‘em.”
Mr. Sandros did not look impressed, not that he ever did.
“Not one of them,” he said, “understood the procedure for deaths in custody?” His voice held a whisper like the blanket over Guinevere’s skin.
“Not one,” sighed Mr. Belvedere. “I knew Seagate was shoddy but I was not prepared for this level of incompetence.”
Mr. Sandros had set down his case, opened it, and was pulling on a pair of dark gloves from within.
“While I…see to her, would you mind collecting statements from the first to respond?”
The only part of the Elite man to move was his eyes, towards the coroner crouched over his case.
“You wouldn’t consider me a biased party?” said Mr. Belvedere. Mr. Sandros paused to glance at him.
“The fact that you would ask such a thing means you’re not.” He turned back to his case. “You were forced to make a poor decision, Ambrose. No action on your part led directly to her death. If I call an inquest, it may have questions for you, but you are under no suspicion of wrongdoing. You remain an upstanding agent of the Crown, hereby enlisted to aid its Coroner.”
“But…she was my responsibility, and…”
“…and remains so. I should say that learning all you can about her death is your priority at the moment.”
It could have been a dream. But, if that were the case, he’d still be on patrol, wouldn’t he? He was in the little upstairs office so it must have been real. He felt good, so it must have been real.
But…
He wasn’t that strong. There was no way he could have slung an entire person over his shoulder and balanced her there as he reached up and tied the noose to the cell bars. He would have needed the strength of an ape. He’d only had that tiny doorframe where bowls were exchanged to brace his feet against. Only one hand to tie the knot as the other pulled the weight of two grown humans.
I helped.
David sat in silence a moment. He listened to a clock on a nearby bookshelf tick away the seconds. There were no footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Thank you,” he said aloud. The voice didn’t respond, but he felt something curl up in his mind, settling like a sleepy cat. It had all been real, then. Like those mothers who could lift ceiling beams to save their trapped children. The body could have anything if it wanted badly enough.
A stack of papers had been scattered across the floor. David gathered them up in no particular order and set them back, neatly, on the already overcrowded desk. He returned to his chair. He’d taken the one in front of the desk, not behind it. A chair was a chair was a chair, but the spot behind the desk was for important people only.
An important person showed up a few minutes later. David heard heavy footsteps on the stone stairs outside, and the small wooden door to the office swung open. Mr. Belvedere had to duck under it a substantial ways. Seagate Castle had been built with the tiny slim people of yore in mind, when even six feet was freakishly tall. He edged past David to sit in the important spot, leaning back in the chair. He looked the young guard in the eye for a moment, silently assessing.
“It’s David, so I’m told,” said the Elite man. “David Breckenridge. Do I have that right?”
“Yes,” came the stolid reply.
“I’m Mr. Belvedere, of the Royal Elite. I’m sure you’re aware that, while Ms. van Allen was at Seagate, she remained the responsibility of the Crown. It was my hope that I might talk to you, David, about the scene you discovered.”
Mr. Belvedere leaned forward, folding his hands on the desktop.
“It’s never easy,” he added quietly. “If you can’t go on tonight, we’ll wait. I want you to be ready to talk about this. It’s better for you and for us if you have a clear head.”
David said nothing, looking at Mr. Belvedere’s hands instead. Muscular and scarred. They could strangle someone no problem. Those burly arms could cave in any old man’s head with a chunk of stone, thought David, he wouldn’t even have to do it twice like I…
“Do you?” prompted the Elite man. “If you need to go, that’s fine.”
No.
“No,” said David, meeting his eyes. “I feel alright. Shaken, of course, but…ready. It’s probably better, now, while I still remember the details.”
“Any time you wanna stop, tell me.” Mr. Belvedere paused a moment, to let that sink in. “Start where you think you should, David. Be as detailed as you can. You never know what may be relevant.”
“Well, I arrived just before ten. I was told that, er, Ms. van Allen had been acting out during the day. Thomas, the—“
“Hold on,” interrupted Mr. Belvedere, leaning in even closer. “Acting out, how?”
“From my understanding, she was on a hunger strike. Throwing things, including the things she refused to eat. I saw that first hand. Thomas, the supervisor on shift before Jacob, asked me to bring her a bowl of stew. He said there wasn’t much chance she’d eat it, but wanted to make sure we didn’t deprive her. So, I brought her one, and she kicked it at the wall opposite her cell.”
“When was this?”
“Not long after I arrived. Ten-thirty, maybe.”
“What did you do about it?”
David gave a half-hearted shrug. “I cleaned it up. Then I brought her another one. She wasn’t happy about that, but she didn’t kick that one over. I left the mop there just in case, and went on a quick patrol.”
“What did you do on patrol?”
“Nothing much. It’s just to keep an eye on the rest of the building. Check the corridors, the lobby, have a walk through the other wings to see if the other guards are holding up. I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. When I returned, Ms. van Allen was asleep and the stew had been eaten. I packed away the mop and bucket and brought the empty bowl back to the kitchen. Since it was so quiet, I did a little washing up. And when I came back out…she was hanging there. She’d been asleep, I…I thought she’d stay that way.”
Over the course of his tale, he had curled like a wilting flower. He was staring at a point somewhere between the desk and infinity.
“It’s alright,” said Mr. Belvedere, “if you have to—“
It was David’s turn to interrupt.
“I did the only thing I could think to do. I scrambled for my keys and got the door unlocked, and I grabbed her around the legs and tried to lift her. And I yelled. Jacob came running pretty quick.”
Mr. Belvedere could see him beginning to fade, drifting into dissociation. He snatched up the conversation before David’s next sentence could begin.
“I can get the rest from Holbrook,” he assured. “Let’s talk about something else. I’d like to ask you some more personal questions, if I might. Is this your full time occupation, David?”
The guard’s breathing slowed. He focused on Mr. Belvedere.
“Yes, it is,” he said quietly.
“How long has it been so?”
“A few days. Not even a week, yet.”
The pity on Mr. Belvedere’s face was plain, but he did not give it voice.
“Might I enquire after your relevant work history? Security? Law enforcement? Anything like that?”
He doesn’t know. The voice piped up almost instantly in response to the chill that shot up David’s back. It’s a standard question. Lie to him.
“No, I have none,” said the guard. “I thought this might be the place to start; I was getting tired of working odd jobs. I wanted something more permanent.”
“Right,” said Mr. Belvedere, vaguely. “Were you ever asked about your work history?”
“Uh…briefly,” dodged David.
“Did you provide a written resume?”
You’re not the problem. Be honest this time.
“No. Uh…no, I didn’t.”
“Mm-hmm,” said Mr. Belvedere, confirming something to himself. “Did you receive any training for this position? Any at all?”
“The basics were covered.”
“And how long did it take them to be covered?”
“Uh, well…a few minutes.”
“Right. Who interviewed you for this position, David?”
“Mr. Colroyne, the councilman. Jim’s father. He handles most of the prison business, from what I understand.”
The Elite man spelled the name aloud to make sure he had it right. He did.
“Listen, son, the coroner’s downstairs makin’ his examination. He might wanna talk to you some more; I need you to wait around until he’s ready. Once you’re done with Mr. Sandros, I want you to go home. We’ll take down your address in case we need to follow up, but until then, get some rest. You return to work when you feel ready and not a moment before, d’you understand?”
David’s skin prickled as he flashed back uncomfortably to the guardhouse. To his dismissal.
Just a few days. Promise. Return too quickly and they will wonder.
“Sure,” he agreed with both voices. Mr. Belvedere set his hands on the desk and pushed off with them, standing tall.
“I’m sorry you had to go through this, David. I have to thank you for your cooperation at what I know is a difficult time. If you need anything, I want you to send for me. I’m at the Lancer for the time being; just ask at the front desk. Anything,” he reiterated. “Even if it’s an ear.”
David riveted on him, quiet, contemplative. His eyes cleared. He sat a bit straighter. And he thought.
A low hum began in his brain, making his skull vibrate.
You could try it, growled the voice. Start telling him about your worthless feelings. But where would you stop, David? Would you tell him you’re an insane ex-guardsman posing as somebody competent? Would you tell him how you killed her?
“Thank you,” he said aloud, wilting once more. “I’ll be alright.”
“Be sure you are,” said Mr. Belvedere kindly. “Would you like a ride home? We have a coach waiting outside. We could arrange something for you.”
“No, thank you. I don’t live very far.”
As he came around the desk, Mr. Belvedere lay a hand on David’s shoulder. The urge to speak up swelled within him once more; so did the growl in his head.
“Anything,” repeated Mr. Belvedere. He patted the shoulder once, then slid his hand off. “Mr. Sandros won’t be long now. I’ll be downstairs if you need me in the meantime.”
The Elite man closed the door behind himself.
As he stepped down into the lobby from the spiral staircase, the gaggle of guards and the doctor among them all riveted on Mr. Belvedere. Jacob spoke up.
“Mr. Sandros wants to see you, sir. He said you should join him right away.”
“What for?” Then, noting the number of spry young bodies, he added: “Who left?”
“Er…he sent Clive out with an official letter, sir. Addressed to his office. He just said that you should join him and that van Allen’s cell is off-limits.”
Mr. Belvedere did not pause to register the unease on their faces. He felt enough of it in his gut.
The coroner was poised over the body, writing something neatly in a notebook by lantern light. He’d covered Guinevere with the blanket once more. Mr. Belvedere waited breathlessly in the cell’s doorway. Mr. Sandros turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.
“You can come in, Ambrose. The restriction of this area does not stand against the Crown.”
“What’s going on?” The Elite man came to stand by him, casting nervous glances at the body. Mr. Sandros closed his book over his pen and set it atop the open case. Then, still gloved, he pulled the blanket off the young woman’s face, exposing her to the shoulders.
“Something is amiss,” began Mr. Sandros. “And, no, I don’t believe it’s the doctor’s doing,” he added, as Mr. Belvedere opened his mouth to ask such a thing. “I’ve been told that she did not appear suicidal, and that in itself is suspicious. Coupled with this, a proper investigation is in order.” Mr. Belvedere was shown the ring of bruising around Guinevere’s neck.
“With a quick glance in a dark room I will not be signing any papers, as yet. I will say for certain that this mark is unusual for a suicide by hanging. It’s low on the neck, for one. Even without a proper noose, the weight of a human body pulls the rope snug around the jawline. That weight is also uneven; most of it should be concentrated under the chin. This bruising is a bit too even, and a bit too shallow. I’d like to have a closer look in the laboratory and in the daylight.”
He raised the sheet back over Guinevere’s face, and lowered his voice.
“Even if one ignores the slipshod and quasi-legal nature of this facility,” he added, “one’s suspicions should be aroused.”
Mr. Belvedere stared blankly at the shape under the sheet. Mr. Sandros stared at him, in turn. The Elite man suddenly sagged, letting out a long, slow breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. One hand settled on his hip, the other dragged fingers and thumb across his eyes in a pinching motion.
“I thought Blankston was a one-horse backwater nowhere nothin’,” he sighed. “Here I am on the other side of a bomb threat, four of my best hospitalized, town council runnin' mob rule and a prison that’s mostly circus - now, a potential homicide in custody. I don’t know just what I did but I’m surely payin’ for it.”
David slouched in a well-worn armchair, his back curved, his legs splayed straight. He hadn’t bothered to change from his uniform, not even the boots, though he’d removed the stiff cap and unbuttoned the jacket. The parlour was just now starting to glow with morning light. He and Paula didn’t use this room very much, but it was perfect today. It was quiet. The voice was quiet. He hadn’t had a thought in his head for hours. What was there to think about? That back-talking tattletale had gotten her due, and he was safe. He still had a job and a wife and a house and some whisky. The good stuff that they saved for special guests and occasions. He’d used a glass, though kept the bottle at his side.
He hadn’t moved at all when Paula returned from her first shift, sleeves rolled up and dusted with flour. The front door had been unlocked, and she knew she hadn’t left it that way.
“You’re home early,” she said, leaning into the parlour doorframe. “Is everything alright?”
David kept silent another moment, thinking. He didn’t look at her.
“A prisoner hanged herself last night,” he said, as if discussing the weather. Paula’s hand went instinctively to her mouth.
“Honey, that’s awful,” she breathed. “The poor woman…” She suddenly registered her husband’s blank stare, the whisky, his premature return. “Did you…see it?”
“I found her,” he murmured. His wife was already at his side, kneeling down to take his hands. “I tried to save her, but, she was gone.”
“Are you alright, David? Did you have to take your tonic?”
“No, I was fine. I just had to stay and talk to the coroner. There wasn’t much to say, really. It was over quick. I’m going to take a day or two off, though. They said that was for the best.”
“I think it is,” said Paula. “What a thing to have to go through!”
He finally looked at her, his eyes calm, his face set.
“I’m already feeling better,” he admitted. She smiled and touched a tender hand to his cheek.
“Good.”
