...Previous
As Sir Roger was eavesdropping on a council meeting, Mr. Belvedere was answering the door of his room at the Lancer Hotel, upon which a courier had knocked. Mr Belvedere thanked him, tipped him, and took the letter he offered. It was sealed by Mr. Sandros’ personal mark, rather than that of his office. Mr. Belvedere didn’t bother to sit as he slit it open.
My examination is complete. I request your presence as soon as you may provide it. 53 Rettig Street.
There was no signature nor well-wishes. Mr. Belvedere grabbed his overcoat and stuffed the letter in a side pocket as he hurried out the door.
He knew the address already, being an employee of the Crown himself. The coroner of Blankston County plied his trade out of a small, square, stone building that housed a collection of minor Crown offices. Mr. Belvedere had only to show his Elite Forces badge at the front desk to be shown up to Mr. Sandros’ office, which was somehow dim and close even with the wide window thrown open. A glass case atop a low-slung cabinet sat in this direct line of sunlight; moisture beaded inside its walls. It housed a half-dozen strange potted plants; hairy, toothed, or both, to various degrees. Mr. Belvedere was studying the equally strange ebony carving of three intertwining eels that graced Mr. Sandros’ bookshelves when the man himself opened the door. He was in a long white smock, setting off the near-blue translucence of his skin. He neither entered nor took his hand off the door latch as he spoke.
“If you’d follow me,” was his only invitation.
He led Mr. Belvedere along office-lined hallways and down portrait-lined stairwells to a small antechamber at the heart of the building. It looked like a common entryway, with hooks and cupboards for coats and gloves, only the door beyond it did not lead outside. The coats were all plain white smocks and the gloves all dark leather. Mr. Sandros took a pair of gloves as he passed by.
“If you might wish to touch anything, I ask that you dress,” said the coroner. Mr. Belvedere hugged his own elbows.
“I think I’ll be alright.”
The door opened without a sound; oiled to perfection like the coroner’s hair. Mr. Belvedere closed the door politely behind him and followed Mr. Sandros into the deepest cellar. It was cold as an icebox, and would have been dark as one save the kerosene lamps burning on the walls. The wooden stairs creaked even more than usual under the Elite man’s heavy frame.
There were two bodies laid out on examination tables, both covered by sheets. One was a clearly recognizable human form; the other appeared to have had its chest levered open like a cabinet. Mr. Belvedere breathed an internal sigh of relief as Mr. Sandros approached the human-shaped one. It was indeed the remains of Ms. van Allen under that sheet, looking just as it had in prison. Mr. Sandros only pulled the covering down to the shoulders. He glanced around, ensuring their privacy, as he pulled on his gloves. Then said:
“It was homicide.”
Mr. Belvedere grimaced, closing his eyes.
“Saints be cursed,” he muttered. “You’re sure?”
“Very,” said the coroner. He motioned the Elite man to come for a closer look. Mr. Belvedere continued to keep his hands to himself. Mr. Sandros gently pressed two fingers to the corpse’s temple, pushing the head aside to expose the back of the neck. “My suspicions were correct; the bruise is inconsistent with a hanging, even a makeshift one as was presented. The weight of a body pulls a noose into a curve, whereas a strangling leaves a straight line - like this. Proper bruises do not form after a heart has stopped beating, meaning she was dead before she was hanged.”
He pointed out an incision over her voicebox, which had been carefully sewn shut.
“In addition, the cartilage of her throat is quite soundly damaged. That rarely happens due to the placement of a noose. If it does, it means there was a struggle during; which there was not since she had already passed. This was garrotting, plain and simple, in the guise of a suicide.”
Mr. Belvedere did not respond. He seemed transfixed by the still, silent face of Ms. van Allen. Mr. Sandros replaced the sheet over it. The Elite man continued to stare.
“I find it hard to believe,” continued the coroner, “that no one would have heard a struggle beforehand. Another round of questioning is in order, particularly the other prisoners. If, truly, no one heard anything - it may be possible that she was drugged and strangled while unconscious. That, or the entirety of the cell block sleeps very deeply indeed.”
Mr. Belvedere glanced up at him, then back at the human shape.
“Drugged,” he murmured. “Does that, uh, mean, someone might have…”
Mr. Sandros shook his head as he read the Elite man’s pained expression.
“Naturally, I considered that possibility. There are no signs of sexual misconduct. A drugging would make sense if there were…otherwise, I don’t know what to think of it. Perhaps the perpetrator had hoped to poison her, and resorted to strangulation when that didn’t work. Perhaps they just had the sense to keep things as quiet as possible.”
Perhaps, agreed Mr. Belvedere silently.
“Clever,” he said aloud. He offered Mr. Sandros a faint smile. “But not clever enough.”
“Oh, certainly clever enough,” said Mr. Sandros, as he removed his gloves. “Just not as clever as a coroner.”
As the courier was knocking on Mr. Belvedere’s door, Julian Bossard was climbing the front steps of Blank Manor. The captain was still unsure that he had the correct information, but it was all he had to act on. Tracking down a single person who, as far as he knew, wasn’t trying to run away was a task easily delegated to an officer; but he’d done it himself. It felt right.
He pulled the bell. Only a few seconds later, the door swung wide. Julian tensed, and ducked into a reverent stance halfway between a bow of the head and a curtsey.
“Good morning, my lady.”
Annabel fixed Julian with her kinder, gentler version of a stern glare.
“Now, you know better than that, Julian. It’s Annabel to you.”
The police captain shuffled his feet a bit as he spoke.
“Yes…Ms. Galbraith.” The witch seemed to accept this compromise. “I was told that I could, uh, find someone I’m looking for here. Do you know a Ms. Baker?”
“I certainly do; she’s downstairs with the breakfast dishes. What did you need her for?”
“An investigation,” said Julian carefully. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details just yet, Ms. Galbraith. It’s Elite business. They need to ask Ms. Baker a few questions. Just for evidence. She’s not in any trouble.”
“That sweet thing? I don’t see how she could be.” Annabel opened the door wider and stood aside. “Come have a seat in the parlour, dear. I’ll send her up right away.”
Julian took up the same gold-green chaise longue that Sir Roger favoured, his cloak spilling across the brocade like a night sky. It was swept back up against his body as he stood to attention. Ms. Baker had appeared in the same doorway favoured by spying crones. Her constant expression of semi-worry had been turned up a notch. She waited for him to speak.
“Ms. Baker, I’m sorry to bother you. I wouldn’t if it weren’t important.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” she said kindly. “What is it you need, Captain?”
He held her eyes a moment, wondering where to start.
“I’m only a messenger in this situation, Ms Baker. I’m here on behalf of the Elite Forces. Mr. Belvedere needs to ask you some more questions. His investigation has…taken a turn.”
They shared another silent pause.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I think you should know sooner than later. I only ask that you keep it between yourself and those who might need to know. Mr. Belvedere’s trying to keep the rumour mill from spinning out of control.”
“Of course. I understand,” agreed Marigold. “What is it?”
The captain took a deep breath through his nose.
“Ms. van Allen was found dead in her cell. Two nights ago. It was an apparent suicide by hanging. In custody, and particularly Crown custody, apparent suicides must be investigated and ruled to be such before anything else can happen. That’s what they’re working on now, and that’s what they’d like to ask you about. I wanted you to have time to process it before they did.”
“Thank you,” said Marigold, after a pause. She hadn’t noticed how hard her hands were grasping eachother. Julian had.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Baker.”
“You don’t have to be. It’s quite alright.” She sniffed quietly.
“If you, uh, need a moment…” began the captain.
“No, I’m fine. Sad to hear it of course, but, I’ll be fine. I…I can’t say as I was expecting to see her again anyway. It’s just a shame she had to go so young.”
Marigold gave a sigh. Then she looked straight at Julian, perking up.
“When and where should I meet with Mr. Belvedere?” she asked, as if discussing the weather.
“I’ll leave his contact information with you, and you can get in touch if- and when- ever you’re ready. I’ll pass along yours as well, in case he ends up needing you sooner.”
“Thank you, captain. I appreciate that.”
He knew it was not the time, but he also did not know when he might get another chance to ask.
“Speaking of, Ms. Baker…you did tell me you had a place to stay.”
She looked to the floor. “Yes. I did.”
“This wasn’t what you meant, was it?”
“No, I just ended up here. I was fine, captain. I am fine. You don’t need to worry about me. You have important things on your mind.”
“Nothing is more important to me than people being safe. And treated well,” he added, when she met his eyes again. “Don’t ever be afraid to contact me or my officers, for any reason.”
Marigold smiled faintly at this. “He’s not evil, captain.”
“Well, he’s not good either,” said Julian firmly. He bowed to excuse himself before his emotions could override his officiousness. ‘Thank you, Ms. Baker, for your cooperation.”
He wrote out the address of the Lancer hotel and Mr. Belvedere’s room number in his notebook. As he tore out the page and handed it to Marigold, Annabel appeared from the kitchen hallway, duster in hand.
“All sorted, dears?”
“All sorted,” agreed Marigold.
“Wonderful! When you’re done with the dishes, dear, could you give the laundry room a good sweep?”
“Of course.” The young witch nodded at Julian once more. “Good day, captain. Thank you again.”
“No, Ms. Baker, thank you.”
She smiled politely yet again and left the parlour, back to her dishes. Annabel waited a careful moment before speaking.
“Is everything alright, dear?”
“Yes, Ms. Galbraith. There are a few more questions the Elite need answered, that’s all. Purely formalities.”
“About poor Guinevere again, is it?”
Not sure what she might have heard whispered, Julian hesitated, screening his words.
“Yes, Ms. van Allen is the subject of their inquiries.”
He could have left at any time. There wasn’t so much as a throw rug between himself and the front door, yet, Annabel was looking at him strangely. He knew he was being asked to stay.
“Did they have to talk with Alfie about her?” she asked quietly. Shakily. Julian considered that question, and the question behind it, as he looked into her careworn eyes.
“Ms. Galbraith, he helped the investigation more than I can say. You should be very proud of him.”
Juilan didn’t know for sure if he’d gotten the message across in its entirety, but the old witch smiled. At the least, she knew that all was well.
Sir Roger could afford to hire any horse in town, but he did not do things, least of all first dates, halfway. After a bit of convincing, he had managed to wheedle Penelope and her cab out of Mr. Harforth’s custody for the evening. He’d packed the carriage with blankets, and baskets of bread and cheese and cured meats and pickled veegtables and tarts and cakes. Two bottles of fine wine had been excavated from the strata of dust in the cellar and nestled carefully in one of the baskets.
He pulled Penelope up alongside the fence, though this time he risked not hitching her to it. She did not move an inch. Sir Roger reached into the cab and pulled out the little bouquet of flowers he’d agonized over all afternoon. His upbringing, which had taught that flowers on a first date was gauche, had fought with the rest of him, which wanted to bring Lucy most of a rosebush. They’d compromised on daffodils and bluebells.
Sir Roger paused on the front step for a quick inventory. Hair, neatly tied back with a bow. Shoes, polished. Flowers…flowers. He was ready. He knocked.
Auntie answered. Roger shrank back into himself. They stared at eachother, each calculating their next move.
“She doesn’t know what you do for a living, does she?” asked Auntie.
“It’s…not for a living,” said Sir Roger hastily, “it’s—“
Auntie cut him off with a raise of her eyebrows.
“You harass women for fun, do you? What a charmer.”
Before Roger could respond, Lucy’s voice called out from within the cottage.
“Is he here?”
“Sure is, my girl,” Auntie called back.
“Just a minute!” cried Lucy. “I’ll be right out!”
Sir Roger turned a pleading look on the looming woman.
“Could you please keep it to yourself? Just for tonight?”
“I won’t tell her a thing,” said Auntie, “unless you treat her poorly. And if you do, don’t count on a second date. I raised her to have standards.”
She left the door open wide, turning her back on him. She resumed her spot at the kitchen table where she’d been darning her way through a pile of socks. Sir Roger slunk through and closed the door behind him. The kitchen glowed a bright yellow in the slanted autumn light. He was only left to stew a few seconds before Lucy emerged from a bedroom door beyond the little sitting room. She was wearing what she always wore, with only a smattering more lace. A blouse and a skirt and sensible boots.
She smiled as she caught sight of the daffodil bouquet. Sir Roger proffered it to her with a little bow.
“You charmer!” she declared, taking the flowers. Her hands brushed his as she wrapped her fingers around the stems. “You didn’t have to do that.” She glanced around the kitchen, brow furrowing.
“You know what? I don’t own a vase. Hm.” Lucy crossed to a cupboard near the basin and pulled a tall mug from inside it. She poured some water into it from the nearby jug on the counter, and slid the flowers into it. She beamed.
“That’ll do. What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” said Sir Roger, gazing at Lucy. “Are you, er, ready to go?”
“Yes! Let’s be off. I’ll see you later, Auntie!”
“Have fun,” was the distracted reply. Sir Roger glanced back at her nervously as Lucy brushed past him out the door. She didn’t look up from her darning.
Lucy gasped as she saw her conveyance for the evening. She trotted over to the ever-patient horse and gave its nose a hug.
“My fwend! How’s my widdle Penelope?”
Penelope did not have a response to this. Sir Roger stood by, basking in the glow of her smile. Lucy leaned in conspiratorially towards the horse as she stroked its ears.
“Why don’t you and I get outta here, huh?” she whispered, rather loudly. “We’ll get rid of this silly boy and you and I can eat all the picnic ourselves. How ‘bout that?”
Lucy patted Penelope on the nose with finality, and turned to grin at Roger.
“Shall I drive?”
He blinked at her as if she’d asked a difficult math problem.
“Uh, I, don’t know. Did you want to?”
“Oh, it’s no difference to me,” said Lucy. “I just thought it’d be fair. You brought the picnic and the flowers. About time I did something around here!”
She mistook his gentlemanly indecision for acceptance and stepped up into the driver’s seat. Penelope’s ears perked up, betraying her glee, as Lucy picked up reins and crop. Roger climbed on beside her, still unsure. As long as there were no dowager countesses around to faint at the sight of a woman driving a man, he supposed, and relaxed a little. Lucy urged the horse into motion, pulling her around towards the road.
“Where are we off to?” she asked, looking to Roger. “Did you have a place in mind?”
“I, er, did, if that’s alright…”
“Of course!”
“Then, just turn right at the road. I’ll point the way.”
She nodded and turned her attention to the horse, who was clopping along at a steady rate now. Roger looked away from her, out at the sun descending through the trees. The forest was alight with yellow, as the kitchen had been. It was a day of beautiful things. He relaxed a bit more.
Lucy snorted a laugh. He turned back, waiting for explanation.
“What is that?” she giggled. Cold shocked his senses, plunged into an icy lake of panic.
“What?”
She touched one pointing finger to the knot at the back of his neck.
“Your fancy little ribbon,” she said, twiddling it. “It’s a picnic, silly, not a ball.”
“Well, I…”
“Besides, I liked your hair down.”
Her smile thawed him out just enough. He reached up and hastily pulled the blue bow off his ponytail. Curtains of hair swung forward, rippling red as he shook them free.
“By the way,” said Lucy, “did you know that your friend Bill and my Auntie knew eachother when they were young?”
“Oh?” feigned Sir Roger. “Did they?”
“She tells me he grew up just a few pastures down the road from her parents’. They were good friends, can you believe that?” Lucy leaned in conspiratorially. “Auntie even said they talked about getting married at one point! How’s that for a coincidence, that you lead her old friend right to her door?”
“And what a coincidence,” agreed Roger. “I…never would have guessed. Bill didn’t mention a thing.”
Penelope drew them nearly to the peak of the thing that was too small to be a mountain, but a little too tall to be a hill. If Sir Roger craned his neck over the side, he could see the edge of his property, though he made no mention of this to Lucy. From this vantage point, no matter where he looked or how his neck was set, the view was breathtaking. The sky in the east was already darkening over the forest beyond Felltown. Blankston sat to the south, chimneys trailing smoke and streetlamps coming ablaze, the last bastion of civilization before the farmlands gave way to endless plains. The sun was setting behind the mountain marked by the scar of Steadney. Still charred, that void, but it seemed some life had come back to it. Sickly green and yellow trees, but trees nonetheless.
Lucy reared the horse to a halt, gazing out over the vista. Her eyes did not waver from it as she slid down off the cabriolet.
“Wow,” she breathed. She looked along the footboard at Sir Roger, who had similarly stepped down. “Good choice!”
He couldn’t help a smile, even at such trivial praise. He pulled the stack of blankets out of the carriage; Lucy hefted out a basket of breads and, more importantly, the wine.
Penelope had been released from her tack and tied to a tree, left to her own picnic of grass. She was ignoring her fares with gusto. They had gotten quite silly indeed and hadn’t even offered to share their apples.
The only light on the overlook was from their lanterns, the only sound their chatter and giggles. The sun had sunk in time with the level of wine. Lucy had given up on a glass some time ago, sipping as politely as she could from one of the bottles.
“It’s not nonsense,” Roger was insisting. “I’ve seen him myself!”
“When no one else was around, I’m sure,” giggled Lucy.
“No! We all did! Some friends and I were…” He suddenly held his hands aloft, a conductor silencing the orchestra. “Wait,” he whispered. “What’s that?”
Lucy stayed absolutely quiet, listening intently. She tensed as distant hoofbeats sounded through the trees. She looked to Sir Roger, whose eyes were as wide as hers.
“Luuucy,” moaned a voice in her left ear. She gasped and fumbled with her wine, snapping her head around to catch the culprit. There was no one there.
“I cooome for your picnic…and your soooul,” continued the voice. Lucy looked back to Roger, bewildered. He was feigning similar surprise.
“My god!” he cried, and leaned his head back over his shoulder, towards the grazing horse. “Penelope, did you hear that?”
“I di-hi-hid, Roger!” came the whinnying reply. “You were right! These woods are hau-au-aunted!”
Lucy had already caught on to the faint twitch of Roger’s lips, the careful movement of his throat. Her own lips were pressed together tightly, trying to fight off the grin taking hold.
“Oh no!” squeaked Roger, his voice back in his own mouth. “The Headless Huntsman’s going to get us!”
“And he’d be doing us a favour!” shouted a surly voice from the glittering town below. “You rascals are keeping us awake!”
Roger sniffed his indignation.
“What a wag,” he declared. “I hope he never sleeps again.”
Lucy applauded as Roger took another swig of wine.
“Incredible,” she said. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Roger, shaking his head. “I taught myself as a kid. It’s simple once you know the secret.”
“Don’t be so modest! Doing it that well must take some time.”
“Well, I was lucky to have it. I didn’t have siblings or anything so I was able to talk to myself a lot. It was fun, actually, pretending someone else was there.”
Lucy had no response. Roger looked down at his shoes, dangling the wine bottle between his knees. He tensed as a hand touched his shoulder.
“You’re an only child, too?” asked Lucy. He looked up at her, and smiled faintly.
“Yes. I, er, don’t think my parents wanted even one, but, here I am.” Lucy’s hand slid from his shoulder, and she turned back to the nighttime vista. Roger continued to study her profile. “No siblings for you either, then?” he said kindly. Lucy shook her head.
“I can’t be sure, to tell the truth. I…I’m a foundling. Auntie isn’t really my auntie, not that I know, anyway. She took me in when I was very small. Small enough that I don’t remember my parents. I’ve asked around, but nobody seems to have known them.”
She went quiet for a moment. Roger similarly did not know what to say. In the end, he decided on a tried and true method.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy.”
“It’s alright,” she said. “It’s more than alright. If I hadn’t been a foundling, I wouldn’t have grown up with such a wonderful Auntie. And if I hadn’t had such a wonderful Auntie I wouldn’t have met the man who came by her farm the other day.”
She turned a smile on him. It was the kind of smile poets wrote about. The kind they dreamed about. He stared at her wide-eyed, mind racing.
You are a monster, thought Sir Roger. You are a monster that does not deserve this. You horrible, horrible man. Kiss her before she catches on.
