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Lucy did not know what day she’d been born, or even what year. She had never found anyone who could tell her when it might be. Equally unenlightened, Auntie had done her best to create a sense of normalcy for the girl. Auntie had decided that the day she’d found Lucy would be treated as her birthday and, given her best but uneducated guess, on that day the girl had been about five years old.
Eight years later, when Lucy turned ‘thirteen’, she had moved her bedroom out of the cottage, dragging her mattress down from the upper loft overlooking the sitting room where she’d slept since she’d first been taken in. She then dragged it all the way to the top room of the ancient tower looming over the farm. She repeated this process with her nightstand, clothes chest, tiny, sparsely populated bookshelf and eventually an old armchair that Auntie thought was in the way in the sitting room.
The tower loft was not glamorous, or even particularly warm, but it was Lucy’s. A growing girl needed a space of her own, and sometimes, a space to share with the farm boys down the lane without keeping Auntie up late.
Lucy had stayed in the tower, and would as long as it suited her. She descended the stairs once every morning as she went down to breakfast in the cottage, and ascended once every night, when all the chores were done and goodnights were said. She slept with the shutters of the single wide window closed, and left them open in the day when good weather allowed it.
Today was just such a day. She rolled off her mattress, which had since been set on an old wooden frame, and crossed to the shutters in her nightclothes. She pulled the window open, and paused, a shutter in each hand. Her brow creased.
There was a box on the windowsill. A gift box the size of a wine bottle. It was wrapped in soft blue paper with a gold ribbon and bow. Four fist-sized rocks had been braced against each side to prevent any casualties from the wind or a curious bird.
Lucy instinctively looked behind her. There was no one there. She carefully lifted the box out of its rocky entrapment and hustled it over to the nightstand for safekeeping. Then she returned to the window and leaned out over the ledge, staring down the length of the sheer fatal drop to the ground. The tower walls, completely grown over with ivy. It was possible that someone could climb it, not that Lucy had ever dared.
She hooked the shutters to the wall and picked up the box off the nightstand. She unwrapped it carefully, saving the bow and ribbon and being unsure why she did so. Inside the wrapping was a wooden box with a sliding panel on the front. She slid it off to reveal a nest of cotton. Pulling this apart, she found a tall crystal vase protected within.
Lucy stared at it. It did not look cheap. To test this, she pulled it free of the box and held it up to the light. It nearly disappeared, leaving a hint of ephemeral rainbows. She flicked a cautious fingernail against it. The vase rang one long, lasting note. Lucy allowed herself an uncharacteristic cuss. Then, cradling the vase in both hands, she smiled. There were only two people in the world who knew that Lucy had not until now owned a vase; and Auntie was not one to care about who had what pretty thing, as long as the chores got done. Either Roger had spent more than a year’s wages on her, or he was not the humble woodsman he’d made himself out to be.
Lucy brought the vase down to breakfast, and rescued the daffodils from their mug.
He was going back tonight. He had toughed out a proper grieving period, and he had not been caught, and his wife was still working. All of these things meant that he was going back. Permanently. No more interruptions or threats to his new, stable job. Paula could return to the life she deserved.
He’d been drinking a lot. Not tonic, that stuff had been poured out in the garden. It did nothing for him now. The last few days had been spent in a constant buzz, easing off only when Paula was around to see. He’d been trying to numb the darkness, but there was no way to do that without numbing himself. It had seen his face. It was too late. The best he could do was go back there, and stare into black corridors, and earn some money and try not to let on.
It took a good minute for him to realize that the pulse in the background was someone knocking on the door. People didn’t come by much anymore. It was a sound he’d forgotten. His senses focused all at once. His vision cleared, his hearing sharpened. He tucked the bottle behind the armchair he’d been splayed out on, and peered around the doorframe of the tiny front room that served as an ersatz parlour.
Go on, said the dark shape in his head. We can handle it.
David opened the front door onto the hulking Elite man, who nodded at him.
“David,” he said. There was familliar kindness in his voice, but only a touch. “I’m sorry to bother you at home. How have you been?”
“About as well as I can be,” said David. “I’m actually going back on shift tonight.”
“Oh?” Mr. Belvedere raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you feel all right?”
“Yes. I promise, I wouldn’t even think about it if I didn’t.”
Mr. Belvedere continued to look skeptical, but he let it rest.
“May I come in, David? I’d like to talk to you about something the neighbours shouldn’t hear.”
Yes, advised the voice.
“Of course,” said David aloud. He stood aside to let Mr. Belvedere into the entryway, and closed the door after him. Seeing the Elite man’s eyes roving curiously about the house, David quickly said:
“Have a seat,” gesturing towards the small kitchen table. “Can I, er, get you anything?”
“No, thank you. I won’t keep you long.”
Kitchen chairs and Mr. Belvedere had a tenuous relationship, one being short and made of wood, the other being a large man with long legs. The Elite man sat sidesaddle, his back to the basin under the west-facing window. David took up opposite him, facing the front door.
“If I’m way off the mark, here, you tell me right away,” began Mr. Belvedere. “I’m going to ask you about…that night, David. If you really can’t face it, say so, and I’ll be out of your hair, no need to tell me twice.”
“Sure. No problem,” said David, hands folded before him on the table. Mr. Belvedere took in this placid, agreeable demeanour before continuing.
“This may seem a strange question, but I need you to answer it honestly. Take your time and really think. I know it was a stressful moment for you, so, please, answer only if and when you’re certain. When you…found Ms. van Allen, was her door locked?”
David reacted as mildly as if he’d been asked about a long-forgotten school friend.
“Her door,” he mused.
“The cell door,” assured Mr. Belvedere. “Was it locked?”
“Of course it was. She would have been halfway to Izkland by now if she’d had a chance like that. No, I…I definitely remember trying to get my key in the lock…”
He trailed off, for effect. Mr. Belvedere watched him closely.
“I’m sure you do, David. It may not have been hanging open, but was it actually locked? Did the tumblers turn? Did you feel a click? Was there any resistance?”
He made a show of thinking about it, while he listened to the voice.
“It all happened so fast, Mr. Belvedere. I really can’t say. I don’t remember thinking it was odd. It just felt like unlocking a door, to me.”
The Elite man leaned in on his elbow.
“What would you say under oath?” he asked quietly. David was careful to look only slightly taken aback.
“In court?”
“If that’s the way you say it, sure. Under penalty of perjury.”
It’s only a question. And you know the answer, don’t you?
“It was locked,” said David. “I have no reason to think otherwise.”
Mr. Belvedere was nodding slowly.
“Alright,” he conceded, slapping a hand flat on the table. “That’s good enough for me.” Having said that, he did not move to leave.
“Why do you need to know?” asked David.
“A young woman’s lost her life. We need to know every forsaken detail we can. On that note…” Mr. Belvedere shifted to face his interviewee head on, as much as the knee-clearance under the kitchen table would allow. “You told me you’d never worked in law enforcement.”
“And I didn’t,” said David, too quickly. Mr. Belvedere paused to study him a moment.
“I have no reason to doubt that. I was only going to ask what you DID do before coming to Seagate.”
“Odd jobs,” said David, mostly to buy the voice some time. “You name it, really. Farm work, when it was in season. Brick laying. Even lamp lighting, for a little while. Whatever would keep Paula and I under a roof.”
The mention of a female name seemed to surprise Mr. Belvedere, somewhat unduly in David’s opinion.
“Your wife?” asked the Elite man.
“Yes. Of four years, now.”
“She at work today?”
The voice in his head sounded a long, low growl. There were no words to it; only wolflike contempt. Resentment. David’s nostrils flared.
“She doesn’t have to be,” said David stiffly. “I provide just fine.”
“Hey, now,” soothed Mr. Belvedere, holding his hands up in peace. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. We’re living in modern times! A married woman with a job isn’t so unusual anymore. So, your wife stays at home?”
“How is this relevant to your investigation?” demanded David. Not the right response, he could see right away. Mr. Belvedere’s eyes narrowed.
“Is there a reason you don’t want to talk about her?”
David looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap. The hard growling pulse of the dark voice had faded, but its kneejerk hostility had already done the damage.
“She…works as a barmaid sometimes. And if the baker down the road needs a hand she’ll pitch in there too. Just helping out. Neither is a permanent arrangement.”
“Which pub?”
If he wants to find her, he will, muttered the voice.
“The Fox And Fennel.”
Mr. Belvedere nodded his approval. “Nice place, I hear. Well, David, I feel I’ve taken up enough of your day.” In one great swish of coat and squeak of chair, the Elite man was on his feet. “Thank you for letting me bother you at home.”
David stood as well. Neither man made a move to shake hands. Mr. Belvedere, leaning on the back of the chair, eyed David up and down one last, probing time.
“Good luck, tonight,” said the Elite man. “I hope I can trust you not to push yourself too hard.”
“I won’t,” assured David. “Goodbye, Mr. Belvedere.”
David watched the Elite man show himself out. He waited until the crunch of feet on leaves had faded down the walk. Then, he returned to the tiny makeshift parlour, and the cheap whiskey he’d hidden away.
It felt good to jingle the bell at the Rose and Badger once more. She had not been in since she’d moved to Blank Manor. Mr. Arbroagh felt the same way, it seemed, as he could not contain his smile when he caught sight of her at the door.
“My lady!” he cried. The pub was mostly empty, in between lunch and tea. “How good to see you again!”
“And you, sir,” said Marigold, with a polite smile. She took her usual place at the bar. “How fare you?”
“Very well, my lady, very well. Thank you for asking. How have you?”
“Much the same,” said Marigold. “Busy, of course, but who isn’t these days?”
“Who isn’t,” agreed the innkeeper. “What can I get for you, my lady?”
“Nothing for now, sir, thank you all the same. I’m waiting for someone,” she explained. “Though, before he gets here, might I ask you some questions? Of all the people who might have the answers, I thought an innkeeper would be a good bet.”
“Of course, my lady. I hope I can help!”
“You’ve lived in Blankston your whole life, right?” asked Marigold. Mr. Arbroagh gave a half-shrug.
“In and around, yes.”
“Do you know the area near Steadney, at all?”
This question caused the innkeeper to wilt slightly. Mention of the flattened town often had that effect on the locals.
“Not very well, I’m afraid. I used to go to the village quite often as a boy, on market days. A whole bunch of us would make the trip just to get some of Ms. Vanderseaux’s rock sugar; but we always stuck to the town square.”
“You never went into the hills?”
The innkeeper eyed her nervously.
“Funny you would ask,” he said, with a small chuckle. “We were told not to, all of us. Our parents all said the same thing; once you climb to Steadney, climb no higher.”
Marigold continued to stare at him, asking the silent question. After fidgeting with his hands a bit, he went on.
“Something had happened up there, a few years before I was born. A man had gone missing from Steadney, which was bad enough; then the party that had gone out to look for him went missing too, all twenty-three of them. There’s really not much up there to get lost in, you see. All you have to do is walk downhill. Something truly awful happened but it’s impossible to say what that was.”
“Impossible?” said Marigold. “No one had any idea at all?”
“Well…when I was a boy, they didn’t tell us much. Just that it was dangerous up there, and there were missing people to prove it. As I got older, there…there was some more talk. But you’ll think me silly for repeating it, my lady, and I don’t want to be a gullible gossip in your mind.”
“You were told that it was a sorcerer, weren’t you?” said Marigold. Mr. Arbroagh stared at her, surprised.
“Do you know this story?” he asked sidelong.
“I’ve heard a version of it,” said the young witch diplomatically. “I wanted to hear yours.”
“There’s not much to it, really. There was a sorcerer hiding in the old castle in the hills above Steadney, and she took a man from the village for…well, reasons I’d rather not think about, if the rumours are true. Torture and things like that,” he added quietly, when Marigold looked puzzled. “His neighbours all got together to try to rescue him, but…they didn’t come back. No one’s seen a trace of any bodies, to this day. Hunters get up near there now and again on the trail of a deer or a fox, and they’ve never found a sign of a human, in all that time. It’s been almost fifty years. I don’t believe in sorcerers myself, but it’s the only explanation we have for twenty-three people vanishing without a trace.”
“It’s as good as any,” assured Marigold. “I take it you’ve never been up to that castle, then, have you?”
Mr. Arbroagh shook his head solemnly.
“It was even more forbidden than the hills around it. Frankly, our parents didn’t have to tell us twice. None of us ever had an inkling to go up there. Usually a mother or father telling you not to do something is the surest way to get it done; not so with that castle. Even from a distance, we could sense something wrong with it. I always thought it looked like a vulture, perched up there. Waiting for something to die so it could swoop in.”
Marigold tilted her head like a curious dog. “You could see it?” she asked. “From Steadney?”
Mr. Arbroagh, lost in memory and gazing out sightlessly over the pub, suddenly came to, riveting on her.
“If you knew where to look,” assured the innkeeper. “It was just a tiny grey smudge with tinier black dots for windows. Even people with working eyes had trouble picking it out,” he added, twitching his spectacles up and down.
“If you were standing,” said Marigold, “facing the hill above Steadney, your back to Blankston, Braichlie below you on your right, where would the castle be?”
Mr. Arbroagh’s mouth was drawn, his eyebrows furrowed.
“My lady, you aren’t…going up there, are you?”
“Oh, no! Heavens no,” lied Marigold. “I was just curious.”
That sentence was punctuated by the jingle of the bell above the door. The young witch turned around on her barstool to see her guest arriving. There was nothing Mr. Belvedere could do to render himself unrecognizable, being six and a half feet tall and built like an ox, though he did look strange to Marigold as he approached her at the bar. It took her a moment to realize why. Even though he wore his usual duster, he had put on a collared shirt and cinched it with the single tie he was forced to own. He’d put on his equally despised waistcoat, too. He allowed none of this to show on his face as he bowed before Marigold.
“Ms. Baker, thank you ever so much for allowin’ me to bother you once more. I hope this might be the last time I have to inconvenience you.”
“Not at all, Mr. Belvedere. I’m always happy to help. Oh, er - may I introduce Mr. Arbroagh, the innkeeper.”
The two men shook hands across the bar.
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Arbroagh. What a fine inn you keep.”
“Thank you, sir, and welcome to it. May I offer you something from the bar?”
“Oh, I’m not much of a drinker, myself, ’specially while the sun’s up…I’d take a coffee and cream if you have it.”
Mr. Arbroagh nodded once. “Certainly do. And you, my lady?”
“I think you can guess,” said Marigold, with a smile.
“Sweet perry, coming up.” He tapped his knuckles twice on the bartop. As Mr. Arbroagh disappeared into the kitchen, Mr. Belvedere reached into his duster, jingling the coins in his pocket.
“My treat,” he announced.
“Oh, no, that’s alright,” said Marigold, staying his arm. The Elite man shook his head firmly.
“I must insist, Ms. Baker. A witch payin’ for her snifter in the presence of a gentleman? Who ever heard of such indignity?”
“No, really,” she insisted. “Mr. Arbroagh won’t take my money, for the same reason. He says witches don’t pay at his inn.”
Her company turned his gaze on the kitchen doorway, his face thoughtful.
“Well, red velvet cake,” he swore. “There are some mannered men left to the world.”
Marigold smiled faintly at this. Mr. Arbroagh reappeared from the kitchen, hot coffee in hand. He set it down before Mr. Belvedere and got to work on pouring a perry.
“What do I owe you?” Mr. Belvedere asked the innkeep.
“Oh, nothing, sir. A friend of a witch is a friend of mine. The only currency I will accept are pleases and thank yous.”
Marigold had never seen what Mr. Belvedere looked like when he was lovestruck. The look he gave Mr. Arbroagh after that comment was the closest she would ever get.
“Surely, sir,” said Mr. Belvedere slyly, “if someone were to leave a gratuity you would not refuse it?”
Mr. Arbroagh smiled. “I wouldn’t go chasing them down the street to return it, Mr. Belvedere.”
The Elite man gave a knowing nod, and picked up his coffee. Marigold took up the mug of perry that had been set down before her, and stood, following Mr. Belvedere’s lead.
“I must steal Ms. Baker, I’m afraid,” explained the Elite man. “We have a private matter to discuss.”
The innkeeper dismissed them with a wave of his hand; say no more. He busied himself behind the bar as they settled into a wall-adjacent table out of reach of prying ears.
“Thank you for meeting me, Ms. Baker. I’m sorry to take up even more of your time. You must be gettin’ sick of talking to lawmen.”
“Not at all,” said Marigold, between sips of foam off the top of her perry. “If it helps, I’m happy to do it.”
“This’ll be the last time I have to bother you, I hope.” Mr. Belvedere downed a glug of coffee. It was good stuff. With bracing warmth in his gullet, he decided to say it outright, as outright as was polite. “I can only assume that you’ve heard about what happened to Ms. van Allen, at this point.”
Marigold nodded solemnly. “Captain Bossard told me.”
Mr. Belvedere took in a deep breath through his nose. “I want to apologize to you, Ms. Baker; partly on behalf of the Elite Forces, mostly as a man who made a mistake. I left her in the wrong hands. She should have been kept under my supervision. I made the choice to leave her in the care of people whose credentials I did not know; then I made the excuse that it was due to restraints on my time and on my personnel. There is none for putting her in that situation.”
Marigold looked down at her hands for a moment.
“You did what you thought was right. I don’t see how anyone could hold that against you. I certainly don’t.”
“I only thought it was right because I didn’t think long enough. It is a disgrace for someone in my position not to think. I promise you on my honour, that will not happen again.”
She didn’t know what to say, and so said nothing. They each took a sip from their respective cups before Mr. Belvedere continued the thread.
“When I first asked to speak with you, Ms. Baker, I wanted to hear your opinion on Ms. van Allen’s state of mind in the days before her death. I was hoping to learn about her suicidal tendencies if any. Deaths in custody have to be treated as suspicious, you see. Foul play must be ruled out, and part of that involves interviewing those near and dear to the deceased to establish their mental health or lack thereof.”
“Well,” said Marigold, filling the silence as he took another swig, “I’d have to say I never thought of Guin as suicidal. Or even melancholy. When she threatened to set off that nitre in the cellar…that was more about trying to hurt you than herself.”
“You know, Ms. Baker, I thought the same thing.” The coffee cup rattled gently as he set it down in the saucer. “Though I didn’t know her as well as you, she never came across to me as the type to take her own life. If she had, well, I assure you she would’ve been under my guard. I know the type. I’ve seen them many times before,” he added quietly. “She was not one of them. But my opinion of her wouldn’t matter in a coroner’s inquest, being the arresting officer; so, thank you for giving me your insight.”
Marigold looked momentarily frightened. “Will I have to testify?”
“A few days ago, I would have asked you to; but you are no longer my most compelling source of evidence. That honour has fallen on the coroner himself.” Mr. Belvedere glanced instinctually around the pub as he spoke. They were still alone, unheard. “I would appreciate it if the things I’m about to tell you could remain confidential for the time being. Speaking legally, there’s no reason to keep it secret; speaking practically, the less the public knows at this juncture, the better for the investigation.”
The young witch leaned in closer, eager to become a conspirator.
“Consider me mute,” she whispered. Mr. Belvedere smiled at her.
“Normally I would take you in for questioning,” he said, “but I feel you’ve been arrested often enough for one lifetime. I do appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Baker.”
He took a deep breath before continuing.
“Mr. Sandros - the coroner - has performed a thorough examination of Ms. van Allen’s body. Again, standard procedure for a death in custody. His findings…well, they clearly indicate a homicide.”
Mr. Belvedere gave her moment to absorb that statement. Her eyes widened slightly; otherwise, she was frozen.
“Sweet Mither,” she breathed. “But…who? Why?”
The Elite man spread his hands, palms up. “Those are the questions I was hoping you could help me answer. As far as I can see, the only people who had both opportunity and motive to kill her are the guards at Seagate Prison, or the members of Blankston town council, being the landlords. The guards barely had time to learn who she was, and most of them only signed up for an easy paycheck, not to dish out vigilante justice. I’ve talked to the whole crew at this point, and I can’t see any of them having a stake in whether she lived or died. The council, their stakes may have been higher; but I’ve talked to them as well. They wanted her dead, but they wanted it to be public. A statement of power, not a footnote in a prison cell. They wouldn’t have let it happen that way.”
Mr. Belvedere had leaned forward, arms crossed on the table before him. He stared at Marigold sightlessly for a silent second.
“Which leaves me with not a whole lot to go on,” he finished. He took a sad swill of coffee.
Marigold thought very carefully in the ensuing silence. Her eyes darted around, brain firing in all directions.
“A lot of people didn’t like her,” she said, once her thoughts had settled. “She wasn’t very popular; for a witch, anyway. Even before she tried to blow up the Harvest Dance. I…” She trailed off, despondent. “I really don’t know who would hate her enough to do that, though.”
“What about the man who ratted her out?”
Marigold stayed very still.
“What man is this?” she said, rather convincingly she thought.
“The one Captain Bossard hid from me, on the grounds he had not caused and would not cause any trouble. Ms. van Allen’s accomplice in the town hall trespass. Do you know him?”
“The captain was the one protecting him?” breathed Marigold. “Oh my. I thought he meant a constable…oh. I said that aloud, didn’t I? Well, look, Mr. Belvedere, he would never do any such thing. He’s, you know, he’s a firebrand but he would never resort to murder. That’s not who he is.”
“So I keep hearin’,” sighed Mr. Belvedere. “Look, what’s his name? I’m tired of talkin’ around him. It’s about time I heard his side myself.”
The young witch hesitated, hunched.
“He’s not a suspect,” assured Mr. Belvedere, “but he might lead me to one. I want to talk to him in exactly the same way I’m talkin’ to you right now. I will not tell him how I found him, and his mother will never know what he’s been up to. Not from me.”
“She’d be crushed,” agreed Marigold, and sighed. “He’s a witch, over in Braichlie. Has a townhouse on the high street, number 18. Blue with boxes of herbs on the windowsills. His name’s Alfaen Galbraith.”
Mr. Belvedere had removed a small bound book from within his coat and pencilled that information in as Marigold gave it.
“That’s very helpful, Ms. Baker. Thank you.” There was only one more thing he wanted to check. “Do you happen to know a man named David Breckenridge?”
The look on her face said she didn’t, but he let her have a moment to ruminate.
“No, I don’t think I do. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Belvedere patted the table with the flat of his hand, his other hand cradling his cheek. “Ms. Baker,” he sighed, “I’ll hear no apologies from you. You’ve helped me immensely throughout this debacle, and without a word of complaint. I’m the one who needs to be sorry for taking up your time.”
He’d never looked as tired to her as he did then. Marigold stood suddenly, pulled by a force outside herself. Mr. Belvedere riveted on her, startled. His wide eyes followed her as she came around the table and settled one arm around his shoulders, one across his chest. Her fingers were barely able to touch around the diameter of his muscles.
“You’re doing a good job, Mr. Belvedere,” she muttered into his hair. “And I’m happy that I could help you do it.”
To her surprise as much as his, she pecked him on the head before withdrawing her arms. She let one hand linger on his shoulder.
“If there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me, right?”
“There shouldn’t be,” said the Elite man quietly. “But, if there is, I do.”
Marigold let her hand slide off, back to the strap of the satchel at her hip.
“I should be going,” she said. “There are other things I have to do today. Please, take care of yourself, Mr. Belvedere.”
“And you, Ms. Baker.” He managed to keep the tremble of gratitude out of his voice. She returned his wave of farewell from the door, then she was gone with a jingle of bell.
The Mither, thought Mr. Belvedere, is strong in that one. He firmly ignored the sting of tears in his eyes and reached for the wallet hidden in his waistcoat. Ensuring that Mr. Arbroagh was not watching from the bar, he counted out the cost of a fine cup of coffee and a tip to match, hiding the coins under the rim of his saucer. He slipped unregarded out the door soon after.
David was welcomed back to Seagate Prison with little fanfare. He was, after all, still the new guy, and the new guy that had discovered the scene of the prison’s first suicide at that. His fellow guards were kind, but wary, treating him like a nice old man that had fallen victim to a contagious curse.
Clive was manning the front desk when David walked in. The lobby was a strangely configured space, mostly empty and too large for the purpose it served, much like Seagate itself. The grand desk and chair sat on a threadbare rug, and apart from this arrangement a small bureau was the only furniture present. The room had been built to welcome guests to a lord’s house, not serve as the public face of a ramshackle prison. It echoed with damp melancholy. Clive, however, radiated warm politeness.
“Hi, David!” He folded up the newspaper he’d been perusing and set it aside. “How have you been?”
“Very well. All things considered,” added David, with just the right touch of grief to his voice. “How have things been here?”
“Quiet, thankfully.” Clive sat up straight, producing a key from his pocket and fiddling with it in one of the desk drawer locks. “Today was a bit of a production courtesy of the Elite, but if that’s the most exciting thing that happens I say we’re lucky.”
David tilted his head, only slightly.
“They were here? Again?”
“Just that Mr. Belvedere. Had more questions, so he said.”
“What about?”
Clive shrugged as he reached into the drawer, which jingled and clonked.
“I dunno, they weren’t to me. One by one he had us bring the inmates in East Wing up to the office. Could’ve fetched ‘em himself, but he insisted we weren’t busy. Like we don’t have jobs to do, right?”
Clive had produced a ring of keys from the drawer and handed them across the desk to David.
“Do you think it was about…y’know, van Allen?” asked David.
“Must’ve been. What else would he have to ask about?”
“Gosh,” breathed David, gazing off into the void. Clive relocked the drawer. David met his gaze as he looked up again. “Did any of them know anything?”
“No idea, he wouldn’t let us listen in. He was talkin’ to that Harker girl for a while but they were discussing the weather for all I know. Wouldn’t say two words to us about why he was here.”
“How strange,” said David. “Well, I suppose I should go relieve somebody, after the day you’ve all had.”
“Sure thing,” said Clive, swinging his feet up on the desk. “Can you believe it? Like we were just sittin’ around getting paid for nothing. Unbelievable, the nerve of some folks.”
He returned to his newspaper and the mug of spiced coffee at his left hand. David went about his business.
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