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Sir Roger had had a good day and was working on making it even better. He had seen the acquisition of a comely new housekeeper and had raised it a whole lot of beer. The universe had thrown in a tipsy woman just to sweeten the pot. She was currently on his lap in a booth in the back of the Ram’s Staff, where just such a thing was allowed and encouraged. The noise of the busy bar made a fine excuse to whisper his tales of daring in her ear.
“…bolt of green lightning; missed the edge of my cape by only an inch,” he breathed. “I thought for certain I’d see a frog when I next looked down at myself.”
The woman shifted in his lap to face him head on.
“Or a snake?” she suggested, leaning into him with a carefully calculated distribution of weight. He grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“As fine an animal as any,” he agreed. She leaned in; paused, and looked over her shoulder. She turned back to Roger with a grimace, her hands cradling his face.
“Roger,” she whispered, “that guy’s staring at us. Do you know him?”
He scanned the crowd for the man she meant. He wasn’t hard to find; he hadn’t even bothered to sit down. He was staring right at Roger. Their eyes locked. The man took this as an invitation to come forward.
“Yes,” sighed Roger. “He’s a…business associate.” As the woman made a move to leave, he tightened his grip on her waist.
“No, no, don’t go, Teresa. This won’t take long.”
“My name’s Tamara,” she said plainly. In the ensuing silence, her hand lingered on his chest, his, on the small of her back. He flashed her a disarming smile.
“So it is,” he said sweetly. “Excuse me a moment.”
The man from the council took it upon himself to sit down next to Roger in the booth. Roger fixed him with a hard stare.
“What do you want, Wallace?” he demanded, in a voice he had learned from his lordly father. The councilman responded in kind with his own paternally-acquired stare of puzzled discontent.
“My name’s William,” he said plainly. Sir Roger repeated his disarming smile.
“So it is. What do you want?”
“Well, I…I have a suspect I want you to bring in, Lord Blank,” said William Harforth.
“Fine. Put it to the council.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said Harforth. “I know for a certainty she’s up to something. Waiting for a consensus would only waste everyone’s time. She needs to be brought in right away!”
Sir Roger glanced sideways at the bemused woman in his lap.
“Can it wait until tomorrow, at least?”
Harforth lit up. “You’ll do it?”
“Yes, yes, just get me a name and I’ll see what I can do in the morning.”
Mr. Harforth took entirely too long to write down a name, address, and directions on a small paper torn from his pocket calendar. Sir Roger was busy casting an apologetic glance at Tamara when he finally handed it over.
“Thank you, Lord Blank. You’re a good man!” said Mr. Harforth, as the paper was taken between two black-gloved fingers and tucked into a shirt pocket without being read.
“So I’m told. Goodnight, William,” he said pointedly. Harforth did in fact get up and leave, though it was more because he did not like two attentions focused on him than any social awareness on his part. Sir Roger turned once again to the girl in his lap, grinning.
“I apologize for the interruption, Tabitha.”
Mr. Belvedere leaned against the wall opposite Guinevere’s cell, watching Mr. Sandros’ underlings at their tasks. One removed the wool blanket from the body, one wrote important things on a clipboard, the other two arranged a stretcher lined with a canvas body bag next to the cot. All four stopped their respective tasks with clockwork synchronization to transfer the remains of Guinevere van Allen using a sheet as a sling. The one that had been writing continued to do so while her companions folded and cinched the canvas closed.
Jacob Holbrook sidled up to Mr. Belvedere as the stretcher drifted past borne by the four solemn youths. Also in synchronization, the guard and the Elite man watched it until it was out of sight past the iron gate. Holbrook was the first to look away, into Mr. Belvedere’s face.
“You wanted to speak to me, sir?”
“Certainly did,” sighed the Elite man. “Let’s go somewhere more private.” He followed after the coroner’s underlings, and Jacob followed after him. Mr. Belvedere cast brief glances at the prisoners lining the corridor as he passed; the ones that were still trying to get some sleep didn’t appear to be succeeding. He showed them the courtesy of not speaking until he and Jacob were back in the lobby.
“Has our friend David gone home yet?”
“Yes, sir. Clive’s going to check in on him once he’s off shift.”
“Good man,” commended Mr. Belvedere, quite genuinely. “We’ll take the office, then.”
He led the way up the spiral staircase and through the door. Without hesitation he took the spot behind the desk again. With hesitation, Jacob considered this arrangement, thought better than to question it, and sat in the lesser chair. Mr. Belvedere took up a fountain pen and the pad of paper upon which he had written some of David’s more important words.
“So,” began Mr. Belvedere, “you oversee the graveyard shift.”
“Yes, I do, sir,” agreed Jacob.
“Did you oversee any strange behaviour on Ms. van Allen’s part before she was found dead?”
“Well…she was feisty. I wouldn’t call it strange.”
“Were you aware that she had taken up a hunger strike?”
“I was told so. I didn’t have to deal with any of it, myself. Thomas bore the brunt of that. She seemed to be over it by the time I arrived.”
“I see. Tell me how you were made aware of her death.”
It was a simple story, and short, but Mr. Belvedere wrote most of it down. He paused after Jacob stopped talking, ruminating on his next words, twiddling the pen.
“Son,” sighed Mr. Belvedere, “whose idea was it to summon Dr. Balmoral to the scene?”
A chill went up Jacob’s spine. The little friendliness left in the Elite man’s voice had disappeared.
“Well, uh, mine, sir. I thought he might know what to do. He is a doctor,” he added helpfully. “He’s used to bodies and things.”
‘That he is,” agreed Mr. Belvedere. “Were you aware that a coroner was required to attend?”
“Uh…not until you showed up, sir,” murmured Jacob.
“Did anyone, in your crew?”
“I don’t think so, sir. If they did they didn’t mention it.”
“Now, this is a problem, Holbrook,” said Mr. Belvedere, quietly. “I’m not sayin’ it’s your fault, but it does need to be addressed. I think you’ve learned all deaths in custody, anyone’s custody, even the Crown’s, has to be seen to by a coroner first and foremost. There is no room for interference in such a case without severe criminal penalties. You and your men are not going to be in any trouble this time, seein’ as I’m the one who left her here without askin’ enough questions, but you will be if it happens again. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” breathed Jacob, half relieved, half terrified.
“Good. How long have you been at Seagate?”
“Uh, since it opened, sir. Almost a year now.”
“How long have you held a supervisory position?”
“Uh, almost a year.”
Mr. Belvedere’s mouth tightened.
“Before you were hired on here,” he said stiffly, “where did you work?”
“My parents own a farm just south of town. I mostly worked for them, growing up.”
The Elite man forced his fist to relax before he cracked the pen casing.
“I can’t help but notice, Holbrook, that is in no way related to corrections or law enforcement. Did you ever hold such a position before you started here?”
“Not…really,” admitted Jacob. Mr. Belvedere closed his eyes, ran gentle fingers along the arch of his eyebrows.
“I’m sensing a pattern,” breathed the Elite man. “Who does the hiring around here, Holbrook? Up at the very top?”
“That would be Mr. Colroyne, sir. He’s on town council.”
Mr. Belvedere had the name already written down. He underlined it.
“Thank you for your time, son,” he said curtly. “You’re free to go. I’d be much obliged to have the use of this office to pen some correspondence, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
Now fully relieved, Jacob stood without a second thought.
“Not at all, sir. Let us know if you need anything else!”
“Privacy and coffee,” said Mr. Belvedere. “At your earliest convenience.”
Marigold didn’t explain the situation to Mr. Arbroagh, and he didn’t ask. She said she had business elsewhere, and had to move on, and thanked him for his kindness. Not daring to question a witch’s judgement, he had simply said:
“Blessed be, my lady. I hope you’ll come for a visit if you find yourself in Blankston again.”
Marigold had agreed that this would be lovely, and neglected to mention that she was not leaving Blankston. She was, in a sense, heading for its source.
The morning of her second visit to Blank Manor was much sunnier than the evening of her first. The grounds were dappled yellow, shaded by grand old trees. These days, the only beings concerned with keeping the grass down were rabbits, but they were doing an excellent job. The vegetable patch, appropriately fenced off from the groundskeepers, was thriving even in the late autumn chill.
Marigold rang the bell twice before it was answered. When it was, she saw why right away. The answerer wore an apron and had her stain-spotted sleeves rolled up to the elbow, fresh from a busy kitchen. She smiled at her visitor as if no one had ever been able to make her as happy as Marigold was doing right now. The young witch recognized the housekeeper immediately and gave a start, dropping quickly into a curtsey.
“My lady! Good morning to you.”
The woman at the door was in late middle age, short and plump. A grey-white braid hung down her back nearly to the curve of her hip. She waved a dismissive hand as Marigold stood.
“Heavens me, dearie, you’re as much a witch as I am!” This was untrue, but the apprentice did not comment. “And a friend of Alfie’s, at that. No need to be so formal. Call me Annabel, won’t you, heart?” She stepped back from the door, holding it open. “Come in! Let’s give you the grand tour!”
“But…you’re Lord Blank’s housekeeper?” asked a confused Marigold, as Annabel swung the great mahogany door shut behind her.
“Certainly, dear. I wanted something a bit less hassle in my old age. I still serve part-time, when I can. Oh!” she said suddenly, remembering. “Would you mind making yourself comfortable for a moment, love? I should get the roast in before I show you around.”
“Not at all,” said Marigold, “but, do you need a hand with that, er, Annabel?”
The older witch beamed.
“I wouldn’t mind two if you can spare them. Can you dice onions?”
Marigold followed the housekeeper past the armchairs and now-cold fireplace where she’d made her pact with Sir Roger, through the doorway that had so briefly attracted his attention. It led to a short staircase and a long hallway, the first door of which opened onto the kitchen. As befitted a manor house, the kitchen was enormous and old, built to serve a family and a number of servants. Pots and pans hung like tropical foliage from the ceiling, some not used since the lord of the house had been a boy. Three wood ovens were spaced along one wall, venting into the parlour chimney upstairs. Annabel had set up in one small corner next to the oven closest the door. A roast lay freshly browned in a baking dish atop the range; a cutting board with scattered garlic skins and carrot greens was next to this on the counter. Marigold set down her rucksack just inside the door, trading it for a knife, two onions and a head of celery. She was desperate to ask Annabel her reasons for working for the witch hunter, but the older witch spoke up before she could think of a polite way to phrase it.
“I was so sorry to hear about Guinevere,” said the housekeeper as she gathered spices from a nearby rack. “I can’t imagine what would drive a witch to hurt those she serves. And to turn her back on an apprentice, no less! You poor thing, tossed out in the cold.”
“Oh, it hasn’t been all bad,” said Marigold, slicing straight through the equator of an onion. “I’ve had some time to think about my life. I met some nice people. And, Guinevere won’t be able to hurt anyone any more,” she added, unaware of the immutable truth of that statement. “I think it was worth it, in the end.”
Annabel smiled up at her as she sprinkled oregano on the roast, not missing a beat.
“Good of you to see the positive, heart. I couldn’t believe the news when I heard it. Guinevere and I have only met a few times, but she seemed a kind soul to me, and a fine witch. I couldn’t picture her trying to harm somebody!”
Having lived with Guinevere, Marigold got the sense that Annabel was simply unable to picture anyone trying to harm anybody. The housekeeper continued.
“Such a shame to see her turn her back on the Mither. You’re still with her, aren’t you, dearie?”
Marigold’s work on the onion slowed.
“I, er…I want to be,” she said cautiously. “I just don’t know if I can stand to be hated by the people I want to help.”
“Heavens, dear, people don’t hate witches. They’re just afraid. They’ve always been afraid of the things they respect. The two go hand in hand, but one sometimes pulls the other along a bit too quickly. You shouldn’t give up on witching if that’s where your heart lies. People may not say it aloud these days but they still appreciate our service.”
Marigold grimaced as she beheaded the celery.
“It’s a funny way to show it,” she observed.
“Give them a few years, heart. They’ll come around as they always have. In the meantime I’d be happy to teach you a thing or two, if you still care to learn.”
Marigold had turned down the same offer from the son; the mother was a different story. She looked at Annabel sideways.
“Really?”
“Of course, dear. I’ve got time for lessons in between loads of laundry! Never had an apprentice besides Alfie, of course, so I’d be learning something too. I think we could make it work.”
“I’d like that,” said Marigold, shaving tiny crescent moons off the celery. She thought for a moment, and this time got the first word in. “How long have you been working for Lord Blank, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, not long. Half a year now. His old housekeeper was just that and passed away without much warning. Roger was in a bit of need so I stepped in post-haste.”
There was more to the story, she knew. Nobody with a clear mind would arrange parsley around a roast with that much attention to detail.
“Does it feel strange, at all?” continued Marigold. “Working for a man calling himself a witch hunter? It did, to me. And now that I know he hired you, well…it seems an odd coincidence.”
Annabel took a handful of diced onion and started to sprinkle it in the dish over the parsley. She didn’t look at Marigold.
“It isn’t a coincidence, heart. We’re both here because we’re witches, not in spite of it.” She paused, for far too long a time. “Alfie’s a good boy, you know that, dearie,” she blurted suddenly. “He just gets in trouble sometimes. He has more temper than a witch should. And since Steadney, he’s been acting out more and more. He broke a few windows and painted some nasty names where the inquisitors could see them. He even started a fight at the market with some young men over who said what about witches. Roger was there to see it, and thank heavens I was too. Alfie would have gone straight to the council with a quarrel at his back if I hadn’t begged with Roger to let him go. He asked if I could keep house, and of course I could, so he said no more on the promise that I come work for him.”
“But, that’s awful!” said Marigold. “You’re a hostage?”
“Oh no, dear. Roger treats me just fine. Pays me well. Truth be told, it’s been nice to have someone to fuss over since Alfie left home. And Alfie himself has been on his best behaviour lately, so it’s not all bad.”
“Yes, he…has been,” said Marigold stiffly. “Still, Annabel, I think that’s just terrible.”
“It all worked out in the end, dear. I’m happy, Roger’s happy, and Alfie’s happy. Don’t fash yourself on my behalf, hm?” She smiled and scooped the last of the celery and onions in with the roast, then slid the whole affair in the low-burning oven. “Come along, let’s show you the house!”
Mr. Belvedere knew the world needed all types. It needed smart people, and strong people, quiet people and loud people. People who liked to watch clouds and people who liked to hit things with other things. He knew exactly which type he was and was proud to be so. Yet, sometimes, the world had to demand certain tasks of certain types. It wasn’t as though he were incapable of these tasks. He had been a good student, considering his aptitude for hitting things with other things. He just preferred being up and about to sitting at a desk with a stack of reports still to write.
He sat hunched at the desk in Seagate’s single lofty office, looking like a gorilla trying to examine something through a microscope. He’d started with a brief note to his Elite regiment in Carrabon, explaining his continued absence. His current work was a letter to the Crown courts reporting why neither he nor the suspect previously apprehended would be appearing on their expected date. Next would be a detailed account of the investigation so far, for his own records as well as the Crown’s. Copies would have to be made, but that’s what clarks were for.
Relief washed over him as someone knocked at the office door. He stopped writing immediately.
“Yes?” he called, trying not to sound too eager for distraction.
“It’s Julian.” The guard captain’s voice was harrowed and hurried. “May I come in?”
“Please do,” said Mr. Belvedere, setting the pen aside triumphantly. Captain Bossard hustled into the room and closed the door with a snap. He turned his wide-eyed wonder on the Elite man.
“It’s not true, is it?”
“What have you heard so far?”
“Some of my officers were saying van Allen’s hanged herself.”
Mr. Belvedere’s grimace told him most, but not all, of what he needed to know.
“When? How?” said the guard captain shakily. “Do they not…how would she…?”
“She was found,” supplied Mr. Belvedere, “hangin’ by her neck from the bars of her cell, just about two-thirty this mornin’. The rope was made from strips of her dress braided together. Only a few minutes gone when the new boy on the night shift had the misfortune to walk by.”
“That poor lad.” Bossard shook his head slowly. “That poor lass,” he added in a whisper. Mr. Belvedere neither agreed nor disagreed.
“It got worse,” he continued, “after Mr. Sandros came by.”
As the Elite man’s voice dropped to a whisper, Bossard hurried to the chair where David had sat a few hours before. He leaned in over the desk, rapt with attention.
“He didn’t like the look of her neck, Julian. Said the bruise was more akin to stranglin’ than a drop through the gallows. I hope I don’t have to tell you that we’re keepin’ that part quiet for now.”
Captain Bossard looked stunned.
“You don’t think…?”
“We don’t know,” interrupted Mr. Belvedere. “But we certainly do have to think. The coroner’s office is examining the body this very minute. We’ll know more soon. In the meantime we have to be careful and do what we can.”
“I don’t know what to say,” breathed the captain. Then, he did. He looked up at Mr. Belvedere with new resolve. “How can we help?”
The Elite man smiled at him wearily. “At the moment, you can’t, though I appreciate the offer. Ms. van Allen remains under Crown jurisdiction even in death. Especially in death, I suppose. There are a few interviews left to conduct but it’s easiest if I handle ‘em myself. Just keep your eyes and ears open and you’ll be helpin’ plenty.”
The guard captain stood, taking his cue to leave.
“I’m so sorry, Ambrose,” he sighed. “What a monstrous thing. If there’s anything the Guard can do, I hope you won’t hesitate to ask.”
“You know I won’t. Thanks for stoppin’ in..” He picked up his pen with disdain, as Captain Bossard strode to the door. Mr. Belvedere paused, then looked up at Bossard’s back just as he touched the latch of the door.
“Julian.”
The guard captain turned on a dime, eager to please.
“Maybe you can help, when you have a moment,” said the Elite man, pondering the words even as he said them. “You or any of your constables. There’s one more person I’d like to talk to, if possible; I didn’t think I’d have cause to speak with her again and so lost track of her movements. If you could find Ms. Marigold for me I’d be much obliged. She may have nothin’ to add and that would be understandable. I’d just like to be sure, if I can.”
“Of course,” said Bossard. “She might even be in town, still. I’ll see what we can find.” His eagerness faded a bit. “Should I, er…explain, right away?”
“She’s likely heard already,” said Mr. Belvedere. “If she hasn’t, well, you know how to phrase things gently, I’m sure.”
Bossard nodded at the Elite man, and left without another word. Mr. Belvedere listened to his boots fade down the spiral staircase. When it was silent in the office once more, he looked down at the pen in his hand and the half-full paper below. He sighed and returned to his work.
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