The Wintertime Paradox

by Dave Rudden

  ‘The corpse, my dear constable.’

  She stepped aside, and Frond saw a crowd of shocked bystanders. At their feet, the man who had been robbed was lying face down in a spreading pool of blood.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a murder.’

  ‘It’s all right, everyone!’ Missy said, shooing back the crowd. ‘He’s a detective.’

  ‘Oh, thank God for that,’ Frond said, fighting for control of his stomach with two pasties, a ploughman’s lunch and four generous sips of brandy. Then he realised she was talking about him and felt sick all over again.

  Maybe it was Missy’s confident tone. Maybe it was that it was late on Christmas Eve and they all had homes to go to. Either way, they dispersed quickly, giving Frond, Missy and the corpse a wide berth.

  ‘Yes, yes, go on, shoo shoo,’ Missy said, following them a little ways up the platform before doubling back. ‘Police business. Very important.’ She patted Frond’s shoulder. ‘That was all right, wasn’t it, Frond?’ She grinned. ‘I kind of enjoyed it actually. Maybe I should get myself a box.’

  Frond had no idea what she was talking about, and decided that she must have been in shock. Frond could relate. He had been to crime scenes before – he was a detective, after all. It was just that, by the time he arrived, a lot of the work had been done. There were sheets over things. Someone had usually been over it with a mop.

  And, though the air was cold and the wind was rising, blood was not a shy smell. It was a heavy smell. A purposeful smell. One that got right up your nostrils and into your brain so that your own blood thumped in reply.

  ‘You should go on with them,’ Frond said faintly, indicating the last of the departing passengers. ‘This is no place for a lady.’

  Missy was still smiling. Why is she smiling? ‘You’re very kind, Frond, but this isn’t my first body.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Apologies. That sounded quite accidentally suspicious. What I meant to say was that I have a little experience with medicine. From my gentleman friend. He’s a doctor by trade, as it happens. Do not worry, Frond. Blood holds no fear for me.’ She scampered over to the body, slipping a toe underneath it to turn it over. ‘Now, let’s see …’

  ‘Missy, wait –’

  Frond didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to see the man’s staring eyes and slack mouth, all painted a deep, dark crimson. He didn’t want to see, because he knew from bitter experience that he wouldn’t see anything. When other constables looked at crime scenes, they saw traces of soil on the edges of boots, and smudged fingerprints, and lipstick stains on collars. All Frond tended to see was the incident report he’d have to write if he vomited during a live investigation. Again.

  ‘Missy, we should really just call for –’

  ‘Hmm … there isn’t much evidence,’ Missy said, tapping her chin exactly like a detective from a pulp crime serial.

  Frond felt a wave of relief and fought the urge to tap his chin too. ‘Really? I was … I was just thinking that. We should call the station and –’

  ‘All I can see is a thirty-two-year-old dock worker with a wife, two children, a relatively serious gambling debt and a weak left lung.’ She cocked her head. ‘Nope – right lung. Sorry.’

  Frond stared at her in amazement. ‘How can you tell all that?’

  ‘Medical knowledge,’ she said offhandedly. ‘Can diagnose a patient from a mile away.’

  ‘With gambling debt?’

  ‘Frond,’ Missy said patiently, ‘I know your razor-sharp constable’s intellect might get tangled up on every minute detail, but the trail is going colder than the body. Can you see anything at all that might be a lead?’

  Frond struggled to remember his training. ‘We should look for the cause of death.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not interesting,’ Missy said. ‘It’s blood. He’s been bloodened. Blood-out syndrome. Too much outer blood. Not enough inner blood.’

  ‘With respect, Missy, I believe you may be in shock,’ Frond said. ‘Looking for the cause of death is really Chapter One.’

  Missy seemed about to say something, then her features once again settled in that fixed, supportive smile. ‘Right you are, Habitas. Go on, then.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I …’ He knelt as close as he dared, trying to ignore the warm, thick smell still rising from the body. It all seemed to be coming from –

  ‘A puncture wound,’ Frond said. ‘In the neck. He was stabbed by something thin and sharp. Like a needle or a …’

  ‘Look at this!’ Missy said suddenly. She withdrew her hand from the corpse’s pocket to reveal a sheet of paper and a piece of leather as red as the man’s still-escaping blood. ‘Isn’t this a …’

  ‘A glove,’ Frond said distantly.

  ‘A red leather glove was found at the scene. Flashy little thing.’

  There was the nausea again. Not the simple, direct queasiness of seeing blood on the outside when it should have been on the inside, but the bilious terror of being out of his depth. He’d felt it when the superintendent had dragged him out to corner the thieves. He’d felt it standing in that alleyway, terrified he would actually have to do something rather than disappear into the background like he always did.

  ‘It could belong to anyone,’ he said distantly. ‘Plenty of people have red gloves –’

  ‘No, Frond,’ Missy said, her eyes shining with fierce delight. ‘It’s a clue. Of course it is. He was just stabbed on a train platform! Perhaps this was a quarrel between the gang who stole the jewels, and now one of their number is fleeing with them in hand!’

  ‘Missy, I don’t –’

  ‘Come now, Frond,’ she said, grabbing his hands. He winced at the feel of the cooling blood on her fingers. ‘This is a lead! A lead you managed to find. And I’m sure there’s more if we look.’ She handed the sheet of paper to Frond, and knelt by the body once more, rummaging again through the pockets.

  Frond looked down at the paper. There was an address hurriedly scrawled in the corner, half obscured by a bloody fingerprint.

  Throw it away. The thought was quiet and desperate, and Frond flinched when he heard it in case Missy somehow heard it too. That was the thing about being bad at finding clues. It meant you didn’t have to do things. Clues were just more chances to fail.

  Missy sat back on her heels. ‘Nothing more in his pockets. Oooh! Is there anything written on the paper?’

  It was windy. He could just let the piece of paper go.

  ‘Frond?’

  The sky was black cloth, stars scattered like flecks of lint. Wind was raking the trees. If Frond squinted down the tracks, he could just about see the lights of the train disappearing into the darkness. Somewhere down that line was Elizabeth. Patient Elizabeth. Elizabeth who deserved better than a failed constable for a husband.

  ‘I have told you already,’ Frond said haltingly, ‘I am no detective. Not any more. The truth is, I am not sure I ever was.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Superintendent Horrinthal was right. It was my fault the thieves escaped.’ He sighed heavily. ‘All I had to do was guard the alleyway to which I was assigned. Everyone else was trusted to storm the Baths. And I …’

  ‘Frond?’

  ‘I went to get a bag of chips.’

  Missy’s eyebrows rose. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I went to get some chips,’ he said. ‘Nausea makes me hungry. When I came back, the thieves had escaped, and Horrinthal was, understandably, furious. If this is a clue, and if this is somehow connected to the theft of the jewels, then we would be far better off calling in the real detectives. I no longer have the authority to solve this crime. Nor, I fear, the ability.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Missy said. She stepped forward to look into his eyes, the edge of her dress brushing the lake of congealing blood. ‘Doesn’t it? Tell me, Frond, what happens if you do solve it? What happens if you chase this thief – this killer – and apprehend him? What does that make of your ability, in the eyes of the superintendent
? In the eyes of the public?’

  In the eyes of Elizabeth, he thought. I’d be … I’d be a hero.

  It might have been the cold air. It might have been the brandy. But Frond suddenly felt an unfamiliar fire kindling in his chest.

  No, not a fire. A question.

  Why not? Why not me?

  Habitas Frond, the hero.

  ‘A day of firsts after all,’ he said, handing Missy the piece of paper with the address. ‘Let’s go solve a murder.’

  The fires of confidence burned strong in Frond all the way through hailing a coach outside the train station and, indeed, most of the way back into Edinburgh. By the time they were rattling across the cobbles of Old Cowgate Street that inferno had begun to flicker. By the time the cab pulled up outside the address, they were naught but smouldering coals.

  ‘I wonder, Missy, have we thought this through?’

  ‘What’s there to think about?’ she said, before opening her bag and having a speculative look inside. ‘Hmm … Frond, could you …’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he said, and paid the driver, wincing at the meagre handful of change he received in return. ‘I just think we’re being a bit hasty –’

  But Missy had already departed, and all Frond could do was follow, shivering at the winter fog’s icy caress. The cobbles were slick and treacherous with frost. A wall of white swallowed the street in both directions, submerging the buildings like ice cubes in milk.

  And ahead – the Balelight Bar. Even when open, it was a grim institution; three floors of grey stone stacked untidily on top of each other like a child’s playblocks, precariously held together by the looping staircase from street to roof. Now, all the lights were off, and the splintered wooden door was closed. The building and its denizens had cropped up enough in police reports that Frond had recognised the address on the bloodstained paper immediately. All sorts of illicit dealings went on at the Balelight. Perhaps the two men were on their way to sell the jewels before one betrayed the other. Maybe this was where the gang laid low after the theft. They could be waiting for me just the other side of the door …

  ‘What am I doing here?’ he asked, face grey and waxy with sweat. ‘If the superintendent knew I was attempting a solo investigation he’d kill me! I should have taken the evidence to him. He would –’

  ‘Snap it out of your hands,’ Missy said. ‘Wouldn’t he? And tell you to get out of his way as he claimed all the credit. Like he always does, am I right?’

  Frond nodded.

  ‘Unless you show him.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘Unless you show them all.’

  She was right. Damn the superintendent, Frond thought. Missy was right! This was his chance to redeem himself. To save Christmas for his family. What was a little fear next to that?

  Frond gritted his teeth, reaching for the handle. But before his hand could close upon it, the door jerked open, and a pale flabby face stared out from the space between frame and door. A pair of rheumy red eyes widened in panic, as they took in Frond and Missy.

  ‘You! No … no!’

  The man bolted.

  ‘Stop!’ Habitas roared, and plunged into the darkness of the bar, not waiting to see if Missy was following. The inside of the Balelight was a dank cave; the bar itself little more than a plank of wood laid over two kegs beneath shelves of dusty bottles and cigar tins. Drunk on the unfamiliar taste of both exercise and adrenaline, Frond did not notice the fleeing man tipping over a stool until it was far too late, and proceeded to plant his foot squarely between the stool’s legs, pitching himself forward with a manful yelp.

  I hope Missy didn’t see that, Frond thought, face and shoulders a mass of pain as he struggled back to his feet. He looked around, but there was no sign of her. Good. This was men’s work, he told himself, and, besides, the villain had made a cardinal error in fleeing upstairs. There was nowhere for him to run. Frond could ascend at his leisure. His limping, aching leisure.

  The Balelight’s first floor was a miserable little two-room apartment – just a cot bed, a battered chest and a washbasin of plates glued together with food and neglect. There was no sign of his quarry, but the back window was open.

  The staircase. Frond cursed, but the thought of showing up the superintendent was encouragement enough, and he was out and on to the narrow, rickety stairs before common sense caught up. Step by creaking step he climbed, praying the rusty iron pins holding him up would not fail, until finally he stumbled out on to the roof with a gasp like a drowning man breaking the surface of the sea.

  ‘Oh, hello, Frond,’ Missy said, from the opposite side of the roof.

  ‘Missy! What are …’

  ‘Shortcut,’ she said, pointing at the staircase from the street. ‘Would you believe, he only went and fell off the roof?’

  Frond rushed to her side. The man’s descent had sliced through the fog like a knife through fat, and he now lay at the bottom of a shrinking tunnel of mist, his life leaking out into the cobbles.

  ‘He lunged at me,’ Missy said, giving the corpse a disapproving look. ‘I think fear of the long arm of the law – fear of you, Frond, and your impressive pursuit – had driven him quite mad.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Frond said hollowly. It was an unworthy thought, but he found himself mourning his chances of revenge more than the criminal. And solving the case, obviously, he reminded himself, though that and embarrassing Horrinthal had become rather entwined in his head.

  ‘What any detective does,’ Missy said. She didn’t sound discouraged at all. ‘We look for clues.’

  Unfortunately, the only evidence they uncovered was that the man who had fallen was Sidney Evans, barkeep and proprietor of the Balelight, and that he had not cleaned since some time before the Boer War. Frond searched (Missy supervised) but they could find no sign of anything that hinted at the identity of either the buyer or the gang, nor the location of the jewels. Exhausted, frustrated and increasingly aware of the long and expensive trip home ahead of him, Frond eventually gave up, slumping down on a bar stool and giving the one that had tripped him a desultory kick.

  ‘Elizabeth will be in a panic,’ he said. ‘Ben will be wondering where his father is. This is pointless, Missy.’

  ‘There must be something,’ Missy said. She was examining bottle after bottle in turn and then placing them before her on the plank that served as a bar. ‘For our sakes.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frond said absently. ‘Wait. What?’

  Missy looked surprised. ‘Well, there’s the body outside, Frond. Two bodies, really. I’d say we really have to solve these crimes, because otherwise the only connection they have … is us.’

  Frond stared at her in horror. ‘Us?’

  She was right, he realised. Being present at multiple crime scenes wasn’t suspicious for a detective, necessarily, but Frond wasn’t one any more. It would not be that difficult, were one equipped with certain prejudices, to look at Frond’s impromptu investigation and come to the entirely wrong conclusion.

  ‘Oh God. Oh God,’ he said, hopping up off his seat. ‘We have to find something. And quickly. I just don’t even know what we’re looking for.’

  ‘A connection,’ Missy said, lifting down one of the polish tins that served the Balelight as an ashtray. ‘That’s all. To a buyer. To another member of the gang. Perhaps even an inside man. It is an ambitious theft to pull off without some kind of advantage …’

  She looked into the tin, and her eyes widened.

  ‘Frond. Look at this!’ She dumped the contents of the tin on the bar, painstakingly picking away the crushed butts of home-rolled cigarettes and lifting out a charred brown cylinder.

  Frond looked at it. ‘It’s a cigar butt.’

  ‘Yes,’ Missy said. ‘And we know that the thieves must have had inside help to steal the jewels.’

  ‘Do we?’ Frond asked. Things were moving a little fast for him. ‘I mean, that’s just a guess –’

  Missy had that smile again. Like this were a game, or the plot of o
ne of her detective serials. ‘You’re getting bogged down in self-doubt again, Habitas. Your instincts got us this far, didn’t they?’

  ‘That isn’t …’

  But it was. Wasn’t it? The barkeep had killed himself rather than face Frond. He must have been guilty. And cigar butts often turned out to be clues. He had definitely heard that somewhere. It did stick out, among the cheap rollies. That had to be something, didn’t it?

  It had to be. The alternative was Frond answering some hard questions about the two bodies so far this night. Horrinthal would enjoy raking Frond over the coals. He couldn’t let that happen.

  ‘So our inside man,’ Frond said slowly. ‘He smokes … cigars.’

  Missy nodded patiently. ‘And must have access to the castle. Perhaps high up in government or …’ She let the pause stretch out, until it became clear Frond had nothing to add.

  ‘Or?’

  She sighed. ‘Or law enforcement, Frond.’

  This time when Frond knocked, the man on the other side of the door did not attempt to flee. Then again, Superintendent Marcus Horrinthal was not the kind of man who fled from anything. It was that bloody-minded tenacity that had carried him first through military service and then to become the highest rank law official in the city.

  Six feet of rugged muscle, topped off by a moustache stained the colour of weak tea by a lifetime of smoking cigars, glared down from the doorway at Frond. He was no less intimidating for his dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Frond? What in blazes are you doing here?’ His eyes narrowed as he saw Missy hovering behind Frond. ‘Tell me you didn’t bring your wife here to plead your case?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Missy said.

  ‘A moment of your time, superintendent,’ Frond said quietly. ‘That’s all I ask. Can I come in?’

  The superintendent harrumphed like a descending portcullis. ‘Fine. But only because it’s Christmas.’

  Frond had never been inside Horrinthal’s home before, but it was much as he’d imagined – rich, dark wood and a plethora of animal heads, mounted on the walls alongside the pistols and hunting rifles that might have felled them. The superintendent bid them follow into his office at the front of the house, clearly eager to get rid of them as soon as possible.