Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 8

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...Previous

   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.

   “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.”

   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.

   “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.”

   Good, agreed the darkness.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 7

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   The road that became Main Street through Blankston connected the farmlands with the hilly forests. The farmlands stretched on for miles to the south. One could walk for hours, and see only wheat. To the north, the road split in two; west led through Braichlie Wood, east to Felltown. At the jointure of these smaller roads was Blank Manor. It sat on several acres of treed property, in the shadow of something too small to be a mountain, but a little too tall to be a hill.

   A grand black iron gate led straight off the main road. Marigold ducked through the inset meant for pedestrians and conscientiously latched it behind her. It was a windy evening, though overcast. A few grey leaves flickered past her as she walked up the path to the house. She passed a large, well-tended garden; an abandoned horse shed and paddock; a similarly run-down well. The house itself was huge, at least three stories, though it was hard to say for sure as pieces had been added and taken out over the course of centuries. All of it was painted robin’s egg blue; this did nothing to hide the fact that some of it was brick, some wood, even some castle-like stone, it seemed, in one high corner.

   The front doors were huge blocks of carved mahogany, almost black when compared to the pale blue. They were so polished she could see her movements in them as she reached for the bell pull. Marigold heard the jingle as if from miles away; the thickness of the doors blocked out most sound. That was why she jumped when one of them opened, having been unable to hear the footsteps behind it.

   His lordship himself answered the door. She realized, as he stood before her in his housecoat, that she had never seen him without his hat on. In candlelit pubs, in moonlit barns, through a distant crowd, it was difficult to gauge the colour of his hair. She learned, now, that it was dark carroty orange. Down to his stubble. Down to his eyebrows, even. Down to his chest hair, she saw, peeking out of his pajama collar.

   “Oh my, I-I’m sorry,” said Marigold. “I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed.”

   Sir Roger smiled at her, and opened the door wider.

   “I wouldn’t have answered if I minded, my dear. Please, don’t stay out in the cold!”

   She creeped in past him. He shut the door on the wind.

   The front hall was huge and open, forming one gigantic space with the parlour beyond, which was framed by a wide arch. Marigold could have stood on her own shoulders twice again, and not been able to touch the roof. A massive chandelier hung precariously over the shining parquet floor.

   “Please,” said Sir Roger, “this way.” She noticed that he kept one hand hovering near her waist as he showed her into the parlour. The massive fireplace, facing the door, was crackling merrily. There were chaises longues and armchairs scattered about, most in gaudy coloured patterns, spreading like a baroque fungus. One of the armchairs closest the fire had a steaming mug of something white and hot on its end table, next to an aggressively crystal candy dish. Roger took up this chair, and invited Marigold to its twin opposite. She sat at an angle to him, facing the fire as much as possible.

   “May I offer you a drink, Marigold? Coffee, tea? Hot rum?”

   “No, thank you. Not right now.”

   She tried to look at him, but found she couldn’t sustain it. She looked down at her hands, instead. Sir Roger settled his piping hot mug into his lap.

   “So,” he began, “I take it you’ve made up your mind?”

   “In a way,” sighed Marigold. “I feel like I’ve had it made up for me. I’m not sure about anything in my life, right now, except that a tossed coin in hand is worth two in the air. So, if your offer is still good, I have to take it, I think.”

   Sir Roger grimaced. “Please, Marigold, let’s not get too enthusiastic.”

   She stared into the fire, eyes bright and shining.

   “I don’t want you to feel forced,” he continued. “That was never my intention. I just thought it would be nice to offer you some stability, especially since you lost it through no fault of your own. But of course, if you want to find it yourself, I won’t think you strange.”

   Marigold took another moment to gather her thoughts, wishing she had asked for tea.

   “I don’t know, is the thing. I don’t know where I might find stability, or even what it looks like anymore. I don’t know if I can trust you or if it’s all some ruse to have me thrown in Seagate, and I don’t know how I could stop it if it is.”

   Sir Roger opened his mouth to protest, caught her eye, and let her continue.

   “I do know,” she sighed, “that you were right. I don’t like taking advantage of Mr. Arbroagh’s kindness. I know that there’s a job right here in front of me that needs doing, and if there’s one thing a witch does it’s the job in front of her. Even an apprentice,” she added modestly, studying her hands. When she looked up again, Sir Roger was gazing over her left shoulder, much as Mr. Arbroagh had studied him last night. His expression was hard to read. He looked back at Marigold in an instant. She turned to follow his line of sight; only a doorway.

   “Well said,” he commended, attracting her attention once more. Sure that he had it, utterly and fully, he continued. “This is not a ruse, Marigold. If the inquisitors wanted you locked up, you would be already. This is simply a rich fool trying to make amends for the disruption of a young lady’s life and career.”

   She knew it was true. The council did not waste time once they had the scent of someone even slightly resembling a witch. Either something had thrown them off her trail, or they’d never had it to begin with. Still sitting sideways, she narrowed her eyes at him.

   “May I ask,” she began quietly, “what kind of amends you had in mind?”

   Sir Roger nodded his approval. “The question that truly matters. Five guilders a week.”

   Marigold kept her mouth from going slack, but she couldn’t stop her eyes widening.

   “Five?” she breathed.

   “Guilders a week,” he agreed. “Room and board included, of course.”

   “Just for scullery?”

   “I told you I was rich fool.”

   It had been the voice’s idea, not his, and as a result he didn’t know what to do next. She’d eaten the stew, all of it, and was fast asleep on her cot. He stared at her through the bars, through the shadows.

   “I still don’t understand,” he murmured.

   Trust? came the reply. David didn’t, particularly, but he considered the question all the same. He’d already followed its orders without knowing who, or what, it was. That was some form of trust, wasn’t it?

   His face twisted as the pain started to seep back into his brain, down his neck, into his chest. The voice had warmed him, even in that damp cold castle; as the tension returned, the temperature dropped.

   Trust.

   It was an order, this time. She had mouthed off. She was going to tell. There was no choice. David opened her cell door as quietly as he could. His keys, though he clamped them together with one hand while the other turned the ring, bonged softly in his palm. The lock squealed in time with the slow rotation. The hinges made similar protest as he opened the cell and slipped in. She would have woken at this, anyone would have, had they not had a hefty dose of St. Frida’s Wort. David stood in the open doorway, staring, listening to the painful pulse in his ears.

   Patrols, reminded the voice. Hurry.

   They’d been told to hurry, as much as was safe in that charred wasteland. Find any survivors and give a blast on the whistle when they did. Splitting up was insane with so many unknowns, he remembered thinking that much, but he was there to take orders, not to make them.

   Dress.

   Still in the dark, David stared.

   Rip, supplied the voice. Pieces. Long.

   The horse-drawn cart was in pieces. So was the horse. They had been the only things standing between the old man and the thing that had torn Steadney apart. Most of the wooden shrapnel had ended up standing between the man and his organs.

   David leaned over her and began, quietly, slowly, to tear long strips off her cotton skirt, a few inches across and a few feet long. Leaning over that old man had been much worse. He was not only alive, but conscious, propped up with his back to a pile of rubble. His legs weren’t much more than strings of red, torn like the ill-fated dress. David had groped for the whistle hanging around his neck, but the old man’s hand had gotten there first, pawing at his chest. The pain in his eyes had turned David’s spine into a single long icicle.

   “Kill me,” came the feeble plea.

   “No, no, we don’t have to do that,” David had insisted. “We can help. Just hold on.”

   The hand had tightened on his shirt, winching the whistle inside a shivering butterfly’s grip. David’s first thought had been to pull free, to bat it away; but how could he? It was only an old man.

   “Don’t. I’m done. There are others to save.” Each shaky sentiment had been punctuated with a weak inhalation, rattling with fluid. “Kill m…”

   The old man had coughed, spattering David’s nose and mouth with blood. The pain in his lungs had sent his head lolling, too weak to hold it up anymore. Frozen, the young constable had watched the old man’s face crinkle in the purest of agonies. David had known the end was coming, somewhere deep down. Hope had helped him ignore it, but hope only went so far.

   He had pulled free, looked around the rock-strewn street. He’d selected a hefty chunk of stone, about the same size as the old man’s head.

   He wove the strips of fabric together in a crude rope, and tested its strength with a quick outward pull.

   Now.

   Knotting one end around her neck, he pulled again, twisting the rope in his hands for a stronger grip. She gave a small gasp, the most her airway could allow, but her eyes did not open. David wrenched harder.

   “You don’t threaten me,” he hissed, just as quietly. “No one threatens me. I’m keeping this job and that’s all there is to it. Bossard gets the same if he dare says a word.”

   Was that his voice? He wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t sure where he was or who this woman could possibly be. All he knew was that things had gone wrong and he was fixing them. The very thought filled him with euphoria. Who needed tonic at a time like this? He could finally set things right, like he’d set that old man right.

   He wasn’t sure if she was dead, but she was certainly limp. He dragged her off the cot by her rapidly bruising neck, pulling her towards the bars of the cell.

   Jacob had taken over the supervisory shift from Thomas just before midnight. All had been quiet, came the report, excepting a spot of rebellion from the Elite prisoner in their care. Jacob had promised to keep an eye on it, then promptly headed up the stairs off the lobby for a nap in the office. There were no hardened criminals at Seagate, only uppity women. If anything drastic happened, he’d hear it.

   He was right about that much. The shouting began around two-thirty. He sat up straight fast enough to crack his neck, his feet falling to the floor from the desk with a loud thump, dragging a stack of receipts and accounts with them.

   A half-dozen of David’s fellow guards came running from all corners of the castle, but Jacob got to him first. He paused for only a split second, to properly register what was happening. The Elite girl was hanging by her neck from the bars of her cell, just a few inches off the ground. By what didn’t matter at the moment. David had wrapped her waist in a full-body hug, lifting her as much as he could. He made eye contact with Jacob, frantic and scared.

   “Help me, for god’s sake!” shouted David. “Cut her down!”

   The split second was over. Jacob darted into the cell, jingling the keys left hurriedly in the lock. He seized her around the legs, below David’s arms, and lifted.

   “I have her!” Jacob assured, breathless. David let go, exhausted, stumbling backwards out of the way. Jacob addressed the pair of guards that had already arrived from other wings of the prison, gathering nervously outside the cell.

   “A knife!” he ordered. “Anything sharp! From the kitchens! Go!”

   She was limp. Not cold yet, but utterly limp. Jacob felt no breathing, heard no heartbeat. Cutting her down at this point was not going to help, he knew, but it was all he could think to do.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 6

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Always true to her word, Marigold stopped by the Morgans’ the following morning. Charlie did indeed have the chicken pox. She left him in his parents’ capable hands with a few more scraps of advice she’d gleaned from her studies of witchery. Then she went to Braichlie.

   It really was that easy to go to Braichlie. All it took was a walk along a forest path. A nice forest too, all shrubbery and beams of sunlight. Though smaller than Blankston, Braichlie was neat and urban, and on that same note, urbane. The streets were tightly cobbled, the houses tightly built and the neighbours tightly knit.

   A true working witch preferred a country home, quiet and possessed of a large garden; Alfaen had compromised with flower boxes of herbs adorning his townhouse. This compromise reflected his practicality. While he could mix a cough tonic with the rest of them, he preferred seances to salves and tarot to treatment. A true working witch also had little time for eyeliner, something Alfaen was rarely seen without.

   He lived on the edge of town, near the forested path. His house was quiet as Marigold mounted the steps. When she knocked on the door, it became even more quiet. The parlour curtains twitched once, ever so slightly, from the corner of her eye. Then she heard quick footsteps on a wooden floor. There was a brief scraping of chains and sliding of deadbolts, newly installed.

   The door opened wide; mostly. For a split second, it hovered, just enough for Alfaen to study his front step from this new angle. Marigold was not meant to discern this, and she did not comment, but noted it thoroughly. Then he was standing before her.

   He gave the impression of towering height, though in truth he was average among young men. The illusion stemmed from an odd thinness that had made his mother worry in his childhood, but now seemed to be a fact of his life. Though blond and fair, he preferred to wear darkest black, most preferably of all with stars and symbols of astrological importance.

   Marigold was surprised when he dived over the threshold and pulled her into a hug. She placed her hesitant hands on his back. He was a friend, of course, but not more than that. Not a best friend. Not even a good friend.

   “I’m glad you’re alright,” he said.

   “Me too,” said Marigold. Alfaen stood back, his hands lingering on her shoulders, studying her intently.

   “Were you home, when they raided the cottage? Did they hurt you?”

   “I’m fine,” she dodged. “Could we talk inside?”

   She kept his gaze. Again, she noted a flash of worry. It made her feel a bit sick, all this standing up straight. All this eye contact and direct questioning. But, it seemed to be getting her what she wanted. Alfaen stepped aside to usher her into the dark, narrow front hall. He closed and locked the door after them both. Marigold peeked into the parlour as he did so. The curtains were drawn. Atop the faint and perpetual smell of incense was a closeness, a hint of must and dust. As the clank of iron bolts faded away, Alfaen turned to her, that spark of anxiety still in his eye.

   “Would you like some tea?”

   “Please,” said Marigold. She followed him into the kitchen, the second door after the parlour. The single window above the basin also had its curtain drawn. Marigold sat down at the tiny table as Alfaen set another log in the low-burning woodstove. She watched in mild amazement as he filled the kettle from a tap over the basin, fed by a cistern in the roof. Marigold was used to dragging water from a well out in the countryside. City witches had it good.

   “When I heard…you know, about Guinevere,” said Alfaen, “I was worried about you. I knew you had nothing to do with it, but, the Royal Elite aren’t known for their empathy.”

   “Actually, they were quite nice,” offered Marigold. “It was scary, but they were good to me.”

   The kettle on, he sat beside her.

   “What happened?” he asked quietly. She told him. About the basement, the nitre, the escape, and the chase. His fists tightened at the mention of Sir Roger.

   “What the fuck was he doing there?” snapped Alfaen. He softened as her expression twisted in dismay. “Sorry. I just don’t understand him. What business did he have butting in?”

   “He did get a lecture,” said Marigold. “When he brought me to Mr. Belvedere.”

   “He deserves more than that,” muttered Alfaen. He let her continue the tale, listening as he stood to attend the boiling kettle, to spoon out some tea into the pot, to get two mugs out of a cupboard. Marigold knew the time was coming close. The story was almost done, the story of how she had spoken to Guinevere. How Guinevere had told her certain things about the man whose kitchen she was now sitting in.

   “She didn’t deny it,” said Marigold. “She told me that wanted to do it. To hurt all those people.” She paused to let a wave of sadness pass. “She would have hurt me, too, as a last resort. I never would have thought it, but I suppose I’m glad to know now. Better late than never.”

   Alfaen set a mug of tea in front of her, and sat down again. He began to stir a touch of sugar into his own.

   “Better late than never,” he agreed. He fiddled with his spoon, silent and contemplative. Marigold took her chance, the rest of her story come and gone.

   “Guin, uh, had a lot to say about you, too.”

   The restless spoon slowed to a halt. Alfaen pulled it out of his tea and set it down, slowly, on the table. Marigold could feel the chill coming off him in droves. He wouldn’t look at her.

   “If it’s true, I don’t really blame you,” she offered. “I just want to know why. If there is a ‘why’. I listened to her, and I want to listen to you too.”

   “What did she say, exactly?” asked Alfaen quietly.

   “That you were part of it, and you sold her out so you could go free.”

   He sighed. She could hear the whine of his brain working.

   “That’s not…wrong, but it’s not the whole story.” He looked to her, pleading. “Can you promise you’ll believe me?”

   “If you promise to tell the truth.”

   Alfaen nodded. “I was part of it,” he admitted. “At first. We wanted to show the council what for. Show them what we thought of their inquests. Of Seagate. Putting the torch to town hall seemed appropriate. That should have been my first clue, when Guin suggested powder kegs instead. A fire would have been plenty for an empty building, but she was insistent and I was caught up in my rebel bullshit like always. Should have seen it coming.”

   Marigold wanted to reach out, to quell his self-loathing, but she did not want to interrupt his flow.

   “She made the gunpowder, I hid it. I had plenty of practice breaking and entering when I was a kid. Didn’t leave a trace, I can be proud of that, at least. Not that there would be anyone around to see a trace. Nobody ever goes into the basement of town hall. It’s all storage. Plenty of things to hide kegs behind, or under, or in. It took weeks. Months, almost. We weren’t even done when I…backed out.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “One night - last week, I guess it was - I asked her when we would have enough gunpowder. When we could finally go for it. She said we’d be ready for the Harvest Dance. And of course I asked, before or after?”

   One hand was taught on his mug, the other balled in a fist. His eyes shone bright and determined.

   “I argued, Marigold. Fuck, did I argue, but she didn’t care. She said the lesson had to be a proper one, and permanent. I’ve done plenty of stupid stuff that had me tangled up with the bronze but I was not gonna let murder be on that list. I told her I was done. She could do what she wanted, but I wouldn’t be part of it.”

   He sighed again, shaking only slightly. He took his first drink of tea.

   “I couldn’t turn her in, or I’d be caught up in it too. At least, that’s what she thought. It’s the only reason she let me leave. She didn’t know I had a friend in the guard. I ran to him as soon as I left the cottage and told him everything. He had me write it all down as an anonymous confession. I was going to, at first; just put a letter under his door, but if they traced the plot back to Guinevere I’d have been charged the same as her. I needed the Guard to know right away that I wasn’t a murderer. Denying it afterwards never works. I got lucky, I know. Lucky that I had someone to believe me. Really lucky that he would risk his own career by keeping me safe from the Elite. By all rights he should have arrested me anyway, for plotting to demolish a building. But he’s a good man. He understands.”

   Marigold didn’t ask to what he might be alluding. Her thoughts were busy elsewhere.

   “Did you name Guinevere?” she asked softly. Her brows were furrowed. “Or did you just say there was a plot and leave them to find her out?”

   Alfaen dropped his eyes to the table. She had her answer, but let him speak.

   “I didn’t like being a snitch, Marigold, but I didn’t know what she would do. The Guard could clear out the kegs at town hall but if they had to track her down she could have hidden more elsewhere. She showed me she was ready to kill. I couldn’t let her have the time for it.”

   He did let them have to time to reflect. Marigold spoke up first.

   “You did the right thing,” she said, and meant it. “Thank you for being honest.”

   “Well, thank you for believing me,” he said, with a small, sad smile. It was Marigold’s turn to stare into her tea, searching for inspiration. Alfaen leaned in closer.

   “Have you been alright, Marigold? Do you have a place to stay?”

   “Yes, I’ve been fine. Just confused, and tired. I don’t quite know where to go or what to do with myself.”

   “I mean, if you need a place…” began Alfaen. “I could even help with your apprenticeship. I’m not the best witch but I know a thing or two.”

   Marigold didn’t respond at first.

   “I appreciate that,” she said. “But, for now, I need some time alone. I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Alfaen, it’s just…a lot to think about.”

   For a moment she thought she’d offended him, as he glanced down at his feet. Then, he said:

   “It is, isn’t it? Just, don’t forget me, if you need anything.”

   “I won’t,” she said, and stood. “Thank you for the tea. And the truth.”

   Then, she left Braichlie. It really was that easy.

   He brought a mop, a hand towel, a bucket full of water, and all the calm he could muster. He’d been hired as a guard, not a janitor, but he’d be damned if he’d go whining to the supervisor for help. He was an adult and would act like one.

   The prisoner of the hour, of most of his hours here, it seemed, had curled back up on her cot, facing the wall this time. David set the bucket down quietly. She didn’t move. He skirted the drying puddle of stew on the floor to rescue the wooden bowl. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was there. After a moment of searching among the scattered sausages, he found the spoon and reunited it with the bowl, setting them aside.

   The mop took care of most of the problem. It only left a few bits on the floor, too heavy for its fibres. David got down on his knees for these, bowl in hand. One by one, between finger and thumb, he began to pick up bits of carrot and onion and sausage and potato. They made a little pyramid in the bowl, a squidgy sad pile without any broth to swim in. Like little pebble markers on a trail. Like that giant pebble that had torn through—

   He paused, very much on purpose. He made the thought go away. Steadney was in the past. It would stay there so help him god. This was only a bit of carrot. And this, only a potato. Giblets stayed inside people, now, that was the way of the world. Things were better and the most anyone had to worry about was some spilled stew.

   With that wave of anxiety had come the awareness of being watched. David looked at the Elite girl, standing and staring like a strange meerkat in the darkness, her hands on the bars. He looked away, to another piece of onion.

   “You didn’t answer my question,” said the prisoner. “Why were you hiding?”

   Satisfied with the floor, David moved to the splash on the wall opposite the cell. He dunked the towel into the greasy mop water, wrung it out, and began to blot.

   “It’s rude to walk away from someone while they’re still talking to you,” insisted Guinevere.

   David’s instinct was to turn on his heel and throw the sodden stinking towel at her face. The voice, that helpful new friend, spoke up before the message could reach his muscles.

   Later.

   His hand relaxed. He sponged the wall some more.

   “Don’t get coy,” snapped the prisoner. “I know you can hear me.”

   David rinsed the towel again. Wrung it.

   “Then you also know,” he said, “that I’m not going to play this game. Why don’t you get some sleep, for once?”

   “You can’t tell me what to do, you fucking pig.”

   He sighed, dropping the hand that held the towel. The thing with the voice rolled over in his mind, coiling like a snake ready to strike. And yet, it still said:

   Later.

   Never, he countered silently.

   “I don’t know why you don’t like me,” he said aloud. “I’m just trying to earn a living.”

   “I was too, before you goons decided to give witches a hard time,” she snapped. “But that’s beside the point. I don’t like you because you’re hiding something.”

   He paused.

   “Hiding,” he said, turning on her. “Like you hid those powder kegs. To murder people with. And you have the gall to look down on me for being a bit secretive?” He set his back to her with finality, dabbing a leftover smudge off the wall.

   “Why don’t I ask Captain Bossard what you’re up to?”

   David didn’t stop, or slow down, though it took a fair amount of concentration.

   “I’m not sure what he has to do with this,” he said carefully.

   “I thought about it, and I realized you weren’t hiding from Belvedere,” she said. “He saw your face when I spat in it. Unless you’ve done something truly awful between then and now, it must have been the captain. Next time I see him I’ll ask if he knows any prison guards named David.”

   He was almost done cleaning up the blood now. All over. It had spattered so far. The walls, the floor, some of it was even on him. The towel was soaked in it. He’d be fired as the liability he was. Just a few more bits of brain to pick up.

   Later, assured the voice.

   David forced himself to relax. In another blink, the red towel in his hand became brown. The chunks on the floor became carrots and sausage once more. He looked to the prisoner, who was smirking at him, relishing his moment of distress. Calm, and blank, he stared.

   “Feel free,” he said. “If you get a chance before you’re shipped off to Carrabon.”

   He tossed the towel into the bucket, where it sank like a dead jellyfish. Leaving it and the mop, he took bowl and spoon back with him to the kitchen. He was grateful he made it there before he started to cry.

   He tossed the bowl down, skittering it a ways along the counter. He planted his elbows next to it, planted his face in his hands. He was alone here and bless all the fucking gods for that. Tears ran down his forearms in silence. There was no room in his head anymore. Jobs and worry and insults had taken every inch. She was going to tell Bossard who was going to have him institutionalized which would make Paula leave him and he might as well kill himself to make it easier for everyone involved. There was no way to stop it now. Terrified, unsure, he could only stand here and cry and wait for the men who’d hired him to be told of their mistake. How a dangerous lunatic had lied to them and taken advantage of their generosity.

   Tonic, said one of the tenants of his mind. David’s choked breathing relaxed with this single word. He scrubbed his eyes clear and glanced through the doorway to the coatroom.

   He found the bottle of tonic buried in his pointlessly spare shirt. He gave the contents of the satchel a good few turns before realizing he’d forgotten a spoon.

   Once more scrutinizing the hallway, David crossed back to the kitchen. Rather than search the cupboards he grabbed the spoon from the discarded bowl of stew. It didn’t particularly matter to him that it had been on the floor. Steadying his trembling muscles, he pulled the stopper on the bottle and poured the most accurate measure he could. He wanted to drink the bottle. He wanted spoon after spoon until the horrible tight feeling in his chest was banished forever. One wouldn’t be enough. Two would set him right but he would get drowsy, and he had to work, why the fuck did he have to work? There was no choice. Just one. He raised the spoon to his open mouth.

   Wait.

   David paused. He searched his pulsing, overgrown mind. It had asked for tonic, now it asked to wait? He gave it room to speak again, hovering the dollop of yellow-green liquid inches from his face. Nothing came. He gave it an entire minute. Then he brought the spoon closer.

   Bowl.

   David paused again. Looked to the item in question. It was a plain wooden bowl.

   Sleep.

   “No, I can’t,” David whispered aloud. “Only one.”

   Her, insisted the voice.

   He made a mistake, then, a mistake that cost him more than a job in the end. He’d ignored it as best he could, keeping it at arm’s length, not letting it make the mental equivalent of eye contact. At that moment he turned inward and let the darkness see his face. It liked what it saw. The worry. The cowardice. Those could be useful.

   “I don’t understand,” breathed David. No reply came, at first. He listened, focused and intent. That’s when he realized the ringing in his ears was gone. The pressure threatening to burst his skull was no more. Peace, or some facsimile of it, had overtaken him.

   Nice?

   “Yeah,” said David.

   Stew. Again. Sleep.

   The one-word commands made more sense, now. David refilled the bowl from the cauldron over the glowing coals. He set it back down on the counter and took up the tonic and spoon.

   Four.

   David felt a twinge of tension return to his brain.

   “I still don’t understand,” he said. “Why—“

   The twinge became a stab, wringing like a greasy hand towel. He clenched his teeth.

   More? came the rhetorical question.

   David measured out four spoonfuls of St. Frida’s Wort into the bowl. The pain subsided. A part of him was scared by this; it was overpowered by another part relishing the peace of the old days. Remembering how it felt when Paula asked him for a second date. Sneaking into eachother’s bedrooms after dark. House-hunting in the weeks before the wedding.

   In a half-stupor he stirred the thick liquid into the broth. It melted easily among the potatoes and carrots. He tasted the concoction, and grimaced as it touched his tongue. It tasted enough like stew, but the bitterness of the tonic was unmistakable. There was a cellar of salt on a nearby shelf above his head, standing prominently among its dustier cousins. He sprinkled some of its contents into the bowl. On the next tongueful, saltiness overtook the bitter medicine. It would do.

   Calm, said the voice, and he was. His tears had dried up. He strode back out into the corridor, stew in hand, like nothing had happened. He turned the corner, and she was still there, pacing like a frantic cat. She glared viciously as he bent and slid the bowl through the slot in her cell bars.

   “Are you simple?” she snapped. “You think I won’t turn up that one too?”

   “I think,” said David, “if you did, I would clean it up again. And again. As many times as you’d like, until my shift was over. Then you could try your luck with someone less patient.”

   Guinevere studied his impassive mask. It wasn’t a gloat, or a comeback. It was a statement of fact.

   “Is that a threat?” she demanded, but without the same fire.

   “It’s an idea,” said David. “You haven’t eaten all day, from what I hear. And from what I know, you want to put up a fight. You can’t do that on an empty stomach.”

   He nudged the bowl further into the cell with the toe of his boot. When he looked up at her, she was more wary than angry.

   Yes, said the voice. Softly.

   “Either way, it’s up to you,” said David. He indicated the mop and bucket with a halfhearted wave. “I’ll leave these here, just in case.”

   Then he strolled away for a quick patrol.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 5

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   The Rose and Badger had its namesakes on the sign hanging over the street. The name in print was nowhere to be seen. Marigold was not entirely surprised, given the literacy of Blankston’s residents, but even if the proprietor had to ask someone about the spelling it was the fad of the times to use words over the door. The owner of the Rose and Badger preferred the traditional ways, the building and its signage both being of the old style.

   No bell jingled as she entered, for good reason. There was very little sound to cover such an obnoxious noise. The dining room was quiet, though well-populated. A green-grey carpet runner greeted her, small roses at small intervals guiding her inside. Beyond a flight of stairs on her right-hand side was the bar. The proprietor behind it was a different sort from his Main Street counterparts, much like his business. In place of a large red woman, or a large red man, was a thin man wearing small ovaline spectacles. His fawn-coloured hair had prematurely redrawn its border into an M atop his head.

   Marigold did not have to flag him down. She did not have to be bold in order to grab his attention from another customer. Rather, it was thrust upon her the moment she walked in. Even at this busy lunch hour there was no such thing as slipping in the door of the Rose and Badger. All were seen and vetted in the span of seconds. She had been approved, clearly. The innkeeper smiled at her as she approached the bar. His kind attention was magnitudes more difficult to address than the distracted apathy she’d found on Main Street, so much so that he got the first word in.

   “How can I help you, miss?”

   “Um…” She forced herself not to shy back. “…do you have rooms? I mean, good morning. Or, I mean, afternoon. Sir.”

   Laughing would have been rude, so he restricted himself to a grin.

   “For a polite young woman, yes, I do. How many nights, miss?”

   “Uh…I don’t know. A few, at least, I think.”

   “Well, they’re a half-guilder each, if that helps your thinking. I’m happy to cut that a bit for a long stay. There’s a bath down the hall and I’ll feed you twice a day.”

   “Oh! That’s very kind,” said Marigold.

   “Kind would be free drink, miss. Would you like to think on it?”

   She looked around at the rest of the patrons, at the clean tables, at the glowing fireplace, at the carefully dusted wainscoting, then back at the man who oversaw them all.

   “No. I’ll take it,” she said firmly. She fished among the coins in her rucksack before her brain could come up with a ruinous excuse. Marigold had trusted her instincts when they told her the other inns were bad news; why distrust them now that they presented her good news?

   “And a…” She paused, examining the bottles on the wall. She squinted. “Do you have perry?”

   “Certainly, miss. Do you prefer sweet or dry?”

   Marigold ended up making an afternoon of it. Two sweet perries and a pair of sandwiches, one beef and one egg salad, a bowl of barley soup and a mountain of roast vegetables. She’d had nothing but porridge since that morning, bland porridge at that. The Blankston Guardhouse was not the worst restaurant she’d been to, but the food there was still only fit for a cell block. 

   “…travelling?”

   Marigold jolted from her reverie of food, staring wide-eyed at the innkeeper.

   “I’m sorry, miss,” he continued, stacking tankards under the bar, “didn’t mean to break your thoughts.”

   “Oh no, that’s alright,” said Marigold. She replayed her unconscious recording of the last few minutes. “I suppose I am travelling, in a way. I’m looking for work but I don’t quite know where. I guess wherever I find it is where I’m travelling to.”

   “Ah, I remember those days,” laughed the innkeeper. “Are you in any particular line of work, miss?”

   Marigold froze with her fork in a parsnip, but quickly recovered.

   “Well, uh…apothecary, mostly. But I’m only an apprentice.”

   “Mostly?”

   “I dabbled. Here and there. Sometimes,” said Marigold vaguely. “In truth, I don’t know that I’ll stay with it. I might look for something else.”

   “At your age? You simply must,” said the innkeeper. “Settling down too soon never helped anyone.”

   Marigold heard the door open behind her, and a small group of people spill in. They all headed, or so she thought at first, to a table under the window to her right. She watched the innkeeper’s eyes fix on something by the door. They tracked its movement as it came closer to the bar. Marigold felt the first chill of anxiety as the innkeeper’s gaze settled just over her shoulder.

   “My lady?”

   Marigold resisted the urge to turn around, but she knew she would give in. She had to. A witch, even an apprentice, who did not acknowledge those who needed her was no witch at all. It was too late, in any case. The innkeeper had heard her addressed. Consternation coloured his usual kindliness. He would come later, after her help had been given.

   She swivelled around and leapt off the chair, barely registering who had approached her as she took them by the arm and led them away, under the staircase. Thus shielded from scrutiny, she recognized Ms. Morgan, a soft round woman with similarly shaped curls cascading from under her cap.

   “Yes, Ms. Morgan?” asked Marigold, much belated. The woman stared in bafflement.

   “My lady, what’s going on? I went by the cottage this morning and it was in ruins! There were Guardsmen everywhere! And here you are hiding me away under the stairs. What’s happened?”

   “A lot,” sighed Marigold. “Too much to explain right now. Guinevere…excuse me, Ms. van Allen; won’t be around for the time being, I’m afraid. She’s been called away on an important matter.” To avoid further questions, she added: “You need something, I see, if you’ve gone by the cottage. Can my help be given?”

   “Oh, well, I think so. Our boy Charlie’s come down with something, my lady, more than can be helped by bedrest. He’s feverish and stiff, and doesn’t care to eat much. It’s been days now and he’s not improved.”

   Marigold gave this as much careful thought as she could, despite her all-consuming awareness of the innkeeper’s keen attention from around the corner.

   “He’s not gotten worse, though,” said Marigold.

   “No, my lady, seems he’s been the same for three days.”

   “How old is he now?” she asked Ms. Morgan.

   “Almost nine, my lady.”

   “Has he had the chicken pox yet?”

   The woman gasped quietly.

   “Oh dear, you don’t think…?”

   “We have seen it about lately, Ms. Morgan. Listen, I’ll come by tomorrow to see if the sores have appeared. In the meantime, get him some willow tea and have him drink it hot. If the sores do come around, don’t let him scratch. A bath in oats will help. Keep him from the other children, or anyone who hasn’t had their own pox yet.”

   “Of course,” said Ms. Morgan. “I remember my own, as a girl. Couldn’t go out to play for a week!”

   “And neither will he, I’m afraid. I’ll come by tomorrow morning to see how he’s doing. If you need to find me…I should be here,” she said unconvincingly. “I’ll send word if that changes.”

   Ms. Morgan’s concern for her son had transmuted into concern for the woman who was now, however temporarily, her witch.

   “My lady, is everything alright? Is Ms. van Allen alright?”

   “She’s alive and well,” said Marigold, “but I don’t know when she might return to witching. I’m sure you’ll hear more as time goes on. I honestly don’t know how much I’m allowed to say at the moment, Ms. Morgan. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

   The woman made a small curtsey.

   “You’ve been plenty of help, my lady. I won’t be more of a bother to you. I only hope that yourself and Ms. van Allen stay in good health and high spirits.”

   “Oh…thank you, Ms. Morgan. I hope the same for you.”

   She turned to watch Ms. Morgan bustle out from under the stairs, to the small table under the window where her fellows were discussing lunch. The first brick in the rumour mill, thought Marigold.

   Then came: I suppose I’m a witch now. ‘My lady’ rather than ‘the girl’. So much for changing careers.

   Marigold took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out in a sigh. She left the shadows under the stairs and turned the corner to face the innkeeper once more. That same unsettled look was on his face. Brows furrowed, mouth tight. It seemed he hadn’t moved during her conversation with Ms. Morgan. Marigold strode up to the bar as bravely as she could, and stared him down.

   “Ms. Morgan called you ‘my lady’,” he observed coolly.

   “She did,” admitted Marigold. There wasn’t any way to deny it.

   “From my understanding, that title’s for witches.”

   “It is. I was studying to be one,” said Marigold. “But I’m not…”

   She froze in panic as the innkeeper rummaged under the counter. Oh gods, she thought, a pistol. He’s going to force me out and call the council on me!

   She stayed perfectly still as he reached over the bar with a closed fist, fingers down. After an uncertain pause, he said:

   “Please, open your hand.”

   Scared to death, but not wanting to cause a scene, she extended her hand flat under his. The innkeeper deposited the silver and copper she’d given him into it. Well, thought Marigold, at least he had the decency to return my money before kicking me out. She looked up at him, pale and sorrowful.

   “Witches stay free at this inn,” said the keeper. “That includes drink.”

   It took Marigold several silent seconds to process these words. She continued to stare, the crease in her forehead firmly set, though fear faded to puzzlement.

   “But, I couldn’t,” she said, when she had accepted that it was not a ruse. She set the small pile of coins on the counter with a muffled clinking. “That’s not fair to you.”

   The innkeeper made no move for the money. He didn’t even look at it.

   “My lady, it’s more than fair to me. Would you prefer sausage or bacon in the morning? Or both?”

   “But, really, I couldn’t,” croaked Marigold. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. It was too much kindness to take all at once.

   “It’s no trouble, my lady, please. Say no more. Would you like another perry?” He nodded at her half-finished sandwiches. “Or something more to eat?”

   “No, no, not right now,” she whispered. She tried to dab her tears away without making it obvious; easier said than done.

   “You aren’t travelling, are you?” asked the innkeeper kindly. Marigold looked up at him, sniffling.

   “My teacher’s been arrested,” she admitted. She did not bother to name the charge, or who had done the arresting. “I don’t know enough to start witching on my own. And I wouldn’t want to, not in this town.”

   “I can’t blame you, my lady. Please, take some time to forget. Know that you’re safe here. The council isn’t welcome under this roof, not while Seagate is open.”

   Marigold sat down again, convinced but still puzzled.

   “Why?” she demanded. “Why would you care so much for witches?”

   The innkeeper, after a quick glance around, leant in with his elbows on the bartop. He lowered his voice.

   “Because,” he said, “the doctors told us not to waste our time. Our daughter nearly died because my wife and I believed them. We only asked a witch out of desperation, and she turned out to be the reason our child saw her first birthday.” The innkeeper touched his hand to Marigold’s on the counter. “The least I can do is see one of her kind through the night.”

   He removed his hand before it became unprofessional, and stood straight.

   “Now, I won’t ask you again, my lady,” he said, suddenly and dubiously stern, “sausage, bacon, or both?”

   Marigold was not one for naps, as matter of course. That afternoon, she napped, and napped hard. The first thing she did upon receiving the key to her room was to lie down on the bed. Though simple, dressed with cotton rather than silk, it was luxurious compared to the bench in the Guardhouse’s holding cell. She fell asleep in the midafternoon sun and didn’t awaken until well after dark. The lamplighters had come and gone, as she could see by the glow from the single window set in the peak of the ceiling. The noise from downstairs was still at a minimum for a busy pub but had certainly grown. Indeed, as she descended the steps, rubbing at her eyes, she saw the dining room twice as full as it had been when she’d left it.

   Her spot at the bar was still there. She’d taken the stool closest the stairs, half-hidden by them so as not to be in the way. It suited her just fine but remained unpopular with the nightlife. She slid back onto it, unnoticed; save for one man she knew about, and one more she did not. The one she was aware of came over to her immediately.

   “Evening, my lady. What can I get for you?”

   “Wine, I think,” she said groggily. The innkeeper smiled as she yawned.

   “Any particular one?”

   “Something white, thank you, Mr. Arbroagh.”

   He obliged with a flourish of glass from under the bar. As he poured, Marigold saw the briefest flash of his eyes towards the back of the pub. A cool glass of wine was in front of her before she could dwell on it too much.

   “Would you like anything to eat, my lady?”

   “Oh, heavens, uh…I’ll think about it,” said Marigold. “I’m still full of barley soup.” She yawned again. Mr. Arbroagh tapped his knuckles twice on the bartop.

   “You know where I’ll be,” he said. His eyes flickered once more, but he moved down the counter to another patron without comment. Marigold looked about at the bustling room, sipping daintily at her wine. A woman about her age was gliding among the tables, picking up empty dishes and depositing full ones. Marigold looked from her to the preoccupied proprietor. The daughter who’d lived, perhaps. She marked a quartet of red-nosed revellers at the table where Ms. Morgan had sat that afternoon. Three young men and a woman, dressed in velvets and buckled shoes. The crowd was surprisingly young, she thought, for a bar off the main roads with no fancy new letters outside. Two of them sat beside her a stool away.

   “Can you believe it?” said the man. “Right in the middle of town, and no one knew a thing!”

   “I can,” rebutted the woman. “Town hall’s only open on holidays. Maybe a few times a month when council’s in session. And they’ve got all kinds of magic; how hard could it have been, really?”

   “You know I never did trust them,” added her friend, after one in a continuing series of draughts of beer, “even before all this, today. Anyone keepin’ to themselves out in the country like that is never up to good.”

   Mr. Arbroagh approached Marigold once more as the woman nodded her enraptured agreement. The innkeeper paused for a moment, listening. Then he looked at Marigold. She shrugged and rolled her eyes in absolute silence. He smiled and let the couple be, but studied their faces for a moment more.

   His eyes darted around again before he said:

   “How’s the wine treating you, my lady?” He added the honorific quietly, in view of Marigold’s neighbours.

   “Very well,” she said. She lowered her own voice. “Are you feeling alright, Mr. Arbroagh?”

   The innkeeper froze, realizing he’d not been as surreptitious as he thought. He looked over her shoulder once more, lingering there; then beckoned her in close. He leaned on the bar conspiratorially.

   “I don’t want to alarm you, my lady,” he murmured, “but a gentleman at the back has been watching you for a while now. Don’t turn around!” he hissed, as Marigold started to do just that. She riveted on the innkeeper, wide-eyed. “It’s Sir Roger. He’s taken to hunting witches.”

   Marigold turned around immediately. From a table at the far wall, lit by a single candle, Sir Roger touched two fingers to the brim of his hat.

   “I wasn’t sure he knew you when he first came in,” continued Mr. Arbroagh, “but I think he does, after all. If you need to hide away upstairs I’ll make sure he doesn’t try anything funny.“

   “No, thank you,” interrupted Marigold, as she stood. “I’ll handle it.”

   She weaved her way through the pub, leaving her drink behind. Sir Roger was alone at his table, just he, the candle, and a beer the size of a wine bottle. As she stood over him, he smiled and opened his mouth to say something clever, but against all odds she beat him to it.

   “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had scared you so badly.”

   Sir Roger’s mouth hung open for a second. He closed it when he realized his chance for a witty opener had passed, narrowing his eyes in tandem with his lips.

   “That whole time,” continued Marigold, taking advantage of his silence, “I thought I was in the form of a frightened young woman. I’m very embarrassed to hear that I left the house undisguised. Green skin and warts and all. I thought I had a handle on my magic but apparently not.”

   “Marigold-“ he began.

   “Oh, but that’s my human name,” she interrupted. “Please, call me Griselda the Wicked.”

   “Why did you come over to talk, if you’re not going to let me talk?” he asked plainly.

   “I didn’t come over to talk. I came over to be short with you so I could storm off,” she said, turning away. Her body trembled with the sudden burst of adrenaline that had granted her such boldness.

   “May I have five minutes of your time, my lady?”

   She paused mid-turn. Her hackles rose. She whirled on him.

   “How dare you address me like that,” she quavered.

   “If I may not, say so. I’m only asking.”

   She did not sit, but she did not leave.

   “What in the world is so important that you had to come in here and blaspheme at me?”

   He held his hands up and out, in a gesture of goodwill.

   “I want to offer you a job.”

   Marigold glared at him, daring him to make sense.

   “It’s hard times for witching, these days,” he continued. “It must be even harder for an apprentice. Not many willing to take you on, I imagine. If you want to earn a living at something more desirable than tavern wenching, I’ll make it happen.”

   “If it’s in your line of work, you can think again,” said Marigold quietly. “I won’t be helping you.”

   “You certainly won’t,” agreed Sir Roger. “I work alone.”

   “What, then?”

   “So, you’re interested?” he said, with a touch of hope. Marigold realized, with dismay, that she was.

   “That depends on the work,” she relented.

   “My housekeeper’s getting on in years and she could use a hand,” said Sir Roger. “That’s all. Some laundry here, some dusting there. You could start any time.”

   She stared at him, and said nothing.

   “I pay well,” he offered.

   She stared at him, and said something.

   “Why would you hunt me down, only to offer me a job? Do you hate witches or not?”

   He motioned her to come closer, nudging a chair out from under the table as he did so. She took the invitation cautiously, sitting on the edge, ready to leap up if necessary. The glare of the candle obscured part of his face.

   “You’re staying here for free,” he began. “Room and board, and anything else you might need, I’m sure. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Mr. and Ms. Arbroagh have never made their love for witches a secret, even before Steadney. So, you’ve been taken in by these people who will provide for you unconditionally. Why would you need a job?”

   “I don’t want to take advantage of them,” insisted Marigold. “I like to earn my living, not just have it handed to me.”

   He chucked a finger in the air before her.

   “Precisely,” he declared. “Marigold, you have to understand; I am beyond rich. I own half the land in this town, and plenty elsewhere. I never worked a day in my life before Steadney, but my word, is it fun! I get to give back to the town that gave my family everything. So, no, I don’t hate witches. I just love that feeling.”

   “I’m certain you could find a calling that doesn’t hurt innocent people,” said Marigold.

   “I’m certain I don’t,” said Sir Roger. “I would never pull someone in without good reason. I arrest ‘witches’, Marigold, not witches. You know.”

   She didn’t, but, ever polite, considered this statement.

   “Besides,” he continued, “the people like a show! I exaggerate, I know, but they love it. Is it really so wrong for me to give them what they ask for?”

   He reached out a gloved hand to touch the tips of her fingers, resting on the edge of the table. In perfect sync, she moved them to her lap. One uncertain heartbeat later, Sir Roger nodded and withdrew his hand.

   “I didn’t think it fair,” he said, as if nothing had happened, “that you should be out of work because of your teacher’s poor choices. I’d be happy to fix that if you’ll let me.”

   “I’ll be sure,” said Marigold, as she stood, “to give that the consideration it deserves. Good night, Lord Blank.”

   She started to make her way back to the bar.

   “Please, Griselda, call me Roger!” he shouted after her. She didn’t turn around and he didn’t press the point. Mr. Arbroagh studied her, worried, as she sat back down in front of her wine glass.

   “Are you alright, my lady? Do you need him out of here?”

   “No, thank you,” she said, and sipped her drink. “He won’t be any trouble.”

   He proved her right. He even left a tip on his way out.

   David started the evening on edge. He ended it there, too. The odds of Captain Bossard showing up in the dead of night were slight, and he knew this, and his addled brain denied the knowledge. The captain must know he had taken another job by now. Another job he was unfit for, like policing. Like all of them. His superiors would come to their senses and look into his past. They didn’t ask if their employees didn’t tell, but they would, for him, he knew it. He was going to be exposed at any moment. Bossard would march in when he least expected it and—

   “David?”

   He riveted on Thomas, the evening supervisor, unaware that his eyes were wide as saucers. Thomas stood in the doorway of the little closet coatroom. David had frozen in the act of hanging up his satchel.

   “When you get a chance, I need you to bring a bowl of stew to the Elite girl. She’s decided she’s on a hunger strike. I’d let her be but Mr. Belvedere would have something to say about that. She doesn’t have to eat it, we just have to say we tried.”

   “Oh. Sure,” said David, and lowered his arms.

   “Be careful. She tipped over the first and threw the second at the wall. She’s had a few hours to think but I doubt it helped.”

   Thomas disappeared down the hall, giving the prisoner in question a wide berth at the juncture of the corridors. David listened carefully for a moment. No approaching footsteps. Only the echoes of an old damp castle, the shuffle of dozing prisoners. He reached into his newly hung satchel and removed the bottle of nerve tonic and a spoon. Dr. Balmoral had told him to take two spoonfuls whenever he felt it necessary, but David had only been taking one. He found too much tonic made him drowsy. It helped, beyond a doubt, but the cost was an overwhelming desire for a nap. A useful development, given his insomnia; just not at work. Being fired for falling asleep on the job was only a shade less shameful than being fired for being a maniac, so he kept his medicine to a minimum.

   He hid the bottle back in his bag and crossed the corridor to the kitchen. A half-full cauldron of stew was being kept warm over the low-burning fireplace. David grabbed a wooden bowl from a nearby shelf, a ladle from a forest of hanging utensils. He decided to give the stew a stir.

   One circle, two, three. Sausages, carrots, potatoes. A thick brown lake of liquid. It was like that woman’s entrails.

   The steam washed over his face, bringing the smell of roasted meats with it. The cornerstone of the chapel at Steadney had been tossed hundreds of metres in the explosion. All of them had, all the stones in that ill-advised building. Most had vaporized, at least somewhat, like a hail of meteors. The cornerstone was still big enough when it ended its trajectory to do plenty of damage. Still sharp enough to rip through a human body. David stirred some more. She’d been dead several hours when they arrived. He and his fellow officers had moved past her, left her lying in the street to find the living. She came later, when the people whose stew was still inside them had been seen to. Everyone had said that dragging those stones all the way up the mountain was a waste of time, that wood would do just fine for the Lord. The blood dried on the stones, both corner and cobble, looked just like the crusty burnt-on bits in the cauldron.

   As the entrails sunk out of sight, David came to. He realized he’d stopped stirring, his hand gripping the ladle so hard it was shaking. He gasped, and blinked, and forced his muscles to unclench.

   Stew, reminded his strange new friend.

   “Right,” murmured David. He scooped some out into the bowl. It looked like food and nothing else. Almost as an afterthought, he added a spoon.

   She was curled on her side on her cot, facing him, though her eyes were closed. Crouching to the floor, he slid the bowl through the slot in the bars made for just that purpose. When he stood again, her eyes were open. They locked with his. David didn’t feel he had anything to say. He was certain he didn’t have to explain what the stew was for. So, he turned to leave on his rounds.

   “What were you hiding from?” she called.

   Two steps away, he paused. Looked back at her.

   “Yes, you,” she insisted, sitting up. She’d kept her shoes on. “What got you all in a tizzy?”

   “I…don’t know what you mean,” said David quietly.

   “This morning,” said Guinevere. “You were on your way home, or so I thought. A minute later you came charging back up the corridor and hid around the corner. Who did you piss off - Belvedere, or Bossard? Both? I doubt you were afraid of Marigold, but of course, I don’t know what you get up to.”

   She was smiling at him. He didn’t like it.

   “I just forgot something,” he said. “In the coatroom.” He began to leave again.

   “Then why did you check for the all-clear before you left? Is it something you shouldn’t have?”

   He kept walking. He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to. She was looking for a fight and it was his job not to oblige her. He only stopped, a few metres down the hall, when he heard the crack of a wooden bowl against a stone wall, accompanied by the splatter of stew and clatter of spoon.

   His hands tightened into fists, tendons popping out like tines. It would be easy. He’d done it before.

   “No,” he breathed, and resumed his pace.

   Later, agreed the voice.

   “No, not at all,” he admonished. “Not over some spilled soup.”

   He turned right, heading to the broom cupboard in the kitchen.

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