by A. C. Cobble
“Nothing,” replied Philp. “It was an unfortunate incident, but with such a woman involved, these things happen. Surely that’s not reason for Nathaniel to be killed? There are dozens of prominent men who courted Hathia before she married Sebastian. She was striking when she was younger, and with the Dalyrimple name and Derbycross as her dowry, every eligible bachelor in the province would have taken her hand. If association with Hathia was enough, we’d be finding bodies stuffed in every alley in this city.”
“Would we?” asked Oliver. “How many of those former suitors are in Westundon now? We should find them, Philip. Check on them. Question them.”
Prince Philip stood and began to pace. “The inspectors should be handling this matter, Oliver. There is nothing we can add, and it’s best if we create some distance between ourselves and whatever scandal is unfolding.”
“Nothing we can add?” chided Oliver “I am the one who followed a lead here. I am the one who discovered Baron Child is missing. Philip, something is afoot. Something terrible. Did you know that Bishop Yates is also unaccounted for? No one has seen him in two days.”
“Bishop Yates is missing?” questioned the prince. “Murders, missing people… I agree it’s bad, but how does it all tie together? Is it political, do you think, a threat to us? Nathaniel Child was certainly making waves in society, spending money the last few weeks that I don’t think he had. Bishop Yates, well, the man doesn’t even have a title. His games are within the Church, and I’ll be honest, Oliver, I cannot fathom what anyone would have to gain by killing or capturing the man. We can try to shake that tree and see if any priests fall out of it, but my advice is that first, we follow the money. Where did Nathaniel Child get his? If you can find out where this influx of sterling came from, I’m— What?”
“I know why he was so flush,” mumbled Oliver, staring at his boots. “It has nothing to do with his disappearance.”
The prince stopped his pacing and placed his fists on his hips. “Anything you care to tell me?”
“No,” replied Oliver, not looking up.
“Tell me what you’ve done,” instructed Philip.
There was a knock on the door, saving the duke. One of Prince Philip’s guards ducked his head in. “Bishop Yates, m’lord. He says the duke left an urgent message for him.”
Prince Philip turned to Oliver, an eyebrow raised. “Send him in.”
The bishop shuffled inside, a kindly smile on his lips. “Apologies, m’lord, coming by so late in the evening, but I was told your brother… Ah, Oliver, just the man I was looking for.”
Philip kept his eyes on his younger brother. “Well, Oliver, here he is.”
Oliver looked up and saw the bishop peering at him curiously. “I, ah, I came by the Church, Gabriel, looking for you.”
“Did you?”
“I did,” confirmed Oliver. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the other two men standing around him but thinking it would look awkward or threatening if he stood in the midst of the questioning. “Neither your secretary nor your valet knew where you were.”
The bishop offered a tiny shrug and a knowing wink.
“I needed your assistance,” said Oliver.
“Apologies, Duke Wellesley,” offered the bishop. “As you know, both the Church and myself are always at your disposal.”
“Where were you?” demanded Oliver.
“You’ve never had a secret assignation?” asked the bishop. He paused, but before Oliver could answer, he remarked, “Of course you have. Your reputation is well known. As a man of the Church, though, I’m afraid I must be more circumspect, particularly around my subordinates. It is frowned upon, as it should be, but I am just a man. I hope you two can keep my faith and not share my little secret.”
“This assignation, who was it with?” pressed Oliver.
“Oliver…” warned Philip.
“A common woman,” said the bishop, clutching his big belly and chuckling. “A seamstress, in fact. She’s, ah, she’s married to a sailor… I know that is terrible, but as I said, I am just a man, and men have needs. I hope you do not think less of me.”
Oliver stared at the bishop in consternation, not believing a word of the man’s story but at a loss how to challenge him on it without drawing rebuke from his brother.
“What did you need my help with?” asked the bishop. “I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience, but perhaps I can still assist you?”
Philip crossed his arms, and Oliver understood the signal. He had little time.
“Bishop Yates, do you know a priest named Thotham?”
The bishop frowned for a moment but then nodded. “An older fellow, yes?”
“He is,” confirmed the duke. “The representative you sent with me to Harwick, she is looking for him.”
The bishop pushed a white tuft of hair behind his ear and responded, “The representative that accompanied you to Harwick… Ah, I’m afraid I can’t recall the individual.”
“Sam,” offered Duke. “She— Sam is apprenticed to Thotham.”
“A girl you say, Sam?” questioned Bishop Yates. “That sounds familiar, and I do believe you’re right. She does follow the man Thotham. I’m afraid I cannot help, though. The priest you speak of is, ah, he’s a bit of a free rover. A son of the Church, but one who walks his own path. He does not live within our compound and has no official duties from my office. I’m afraid he tends to answer only to himself. Surely the girl told you this? If she is apprenticed to him, she knows the man far better than I.”
“What did she tell you, Oliver?” questioned Philip.
“He’s missing,” said Oliver, running his hand over his hair and checking the knot in the back, hoping he covered his wince. “He spends a lot of time on Church grounds, but we could not find him.”
“Everyone seems to be going missing recently,” remarked Philip coldly, his arms still crossed, a glare fixed on his face.
“Did you check his apartments?” wondered Bishop Yates.
“We, ah… She is not sure where those might be,” admitted Oliver.
“This girl, his apprentice, is not sure where Thotham lives?” wondered Bishop Yates.
Ignoring his brother’s pointed look, Oliver tried another tack. “Do you know how to contact the man?”
The bishop shook his head. “As I mentioned, he follows his own path. He comes to see me, but I’m afraid I have no idea where to find him. I do know he keeps an apartment somewhere in the city and spends a great deal of time traveling all over Enhover. That is part of his role within the Church. I promised help, Duke Wellesley, and I meant it. Perhaps I can ask around and see if anyone is friends with the man. Surely one of our priests can lead us in the right direction. I think we’ll find this priest of yours is on one of his regular excursions around the countryside and will turn up in short order.”
“We appreciate your help, Bishop Yates,” said Prince Philip. “I believe that is all my brother has for you this evening. Is that right, Oliver?”
“Yes,” mumbled Oliver. “I do appreciate your help at such an awful hour, Bishop.”
The old man smiled and nodded again. “The Church is always happy to assist the Crown. We wouldn’t want our allocation to be cut in half, after all.”
Oliver couldn’t hide his wince that time.
“You have no fear of that as long as a Wellesley is on the throne,” assured Philip, not picking up on the subtext and the bishop’s sly smile.
“I’ll take my leave then,” said the old man.
After he left, Philip turned on Oliver, stabbing a finger toward his brother. “I hope this girl isn’t putting ideas into your head.”
“She’s not,” muttered Oliver.
“When I asked you to assist with the investigation of Countess Dalyrimple, I meant as a passive representative of the Crown and the Company. You’ve taken it too far, brother, and I’m afraid you’re just making a muck of it,” chastised Philip. “The situation may be worse now because of your involvement.�
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“That’s unfair,” protested Oliver.
“There are more bodies, and you have no leads,” responded Philip sharply. “I’m not saying your actions led to their deaths, but you certainly didn’t prevent them, did you? Don’t you think it’s time to step aside, perhaps finally make that expedition to the Westlands, and let the professional investigators finish this?”
“Are you giving me an order?” muttered Oliver.
“I’m asking you a question,” replied his brother. “Do you really think this is the best use of your time as a senior officer of the Company and a member of the royal family? Because I do not.”
“I’d like to continue to pursue this,” said Oliver, adding quickly when he saw his brother’s expression, “a few days, at most. I still have five days until I’m scheduled to depart. You are right, the inspectors should be handling this, but I know the Child family, brother. I couldn’t sleep knowing Nathaniel may be out there somewhere in danger. The inspectors will lead, but I’d like to assist in what ways I am able.”
“Two more days,” agreed Philip, a suspicious frown on his face, “Then, Oliver, it is time to move on, regardless of how close you are with the Child family. Two days. Then you are done. And that is an order from your prince. Go to the Westlands if you’re still interested in exploration and incredible wealth, refresh some of your old maps if you are not, attend the theatre or gamble at the tracks, visit Lannia in Southundon, woo Isisandra Dalyrimple, woo the twins… Do anything other than this, brother.”
“I understand.”
For the second time that night, he found himself hammering a fist on a closed door. The lacquered, wooden surface was damp with dew from the thick fog that blanketed Westundon. Lights burned in street lamps hung at the ends of the block, barely cutting through the heavy mist, but the house he was knocking on was well-enough lit, the foyer bright, and a window in the room he believed to be Isisandra’s was glowing as well.
It was terribly rude and socially unacceptable to call upon a young woman so late, but he was tired and frustrated. Every lead, every angle they’d pursued, led to a dead end. Literally, in most cases.
All except one. All except Isisandra Dalyrimple. Somehow, she was at the heart of the matter, and he was done waiting. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and by dawn, he’d know what she knew. If there was some clue, some lead hidden in her mind, he would find it.
The click of a bolt and the scrape of iron on wood snapped his attention back to the door, and slowly, it swung open.
Oliver stared in confusion.
“We need to talk,” muttered Sam, brushing past him and shutting the door behind her.
“Wait. What?” he asked, hurrying after her down the stone steps of Isisandra’s stoop. Sam kept walking, so he grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around more violently than he intended. “What are you talking… Are your trousers unlaced?”
Sam looked down and muttered a curse. Awkwardly pulling up the belt she kept her kris daggers on, she hastily cinched the leather thongs that kept her trousers on. She tied them off in a bow then readjusted her belt.
“Why are your trousers unlaced?” demanded Oliver.
“I said we need to talk,” mumbled Sam, turning again and starting off into the fog.
“Where are you going?” asked Oliver, chasing after her.
“The Befuddled Sage,” said Sam, not looking back. “I need a drink, and so do you.”
“It’s almost dawn,” he complained. “What are you talking about?”
She didn’t respond, so he followed her as she plowed through the roiling clouds of cool moisture that poured over the dark streets. Finally, they arrived at the pub. It was even dimmer than the last time he’d been inside. Lanterns braced the open door, illuminating the drifting mist with a ghastly glow. Half a dozen patrons were scattered around the room when they walked in, and the barman Andrew simply nodded and collected an earthenware jug.
Sam sat at the bar as far from the other patrons as she could manage, and Oliver pulled up a stool beside her. Since she had opened the door to Isisandra’s house, she hadn’t met his eyes, and she still didn’t. Her gaze was fixed on her hands.
Oliver leaned close. “Is something wrong? Tell me—There is lip paint on your neck!”
She shifted.
Suddenly, he bolted upright, knocking over his stool. “You didn’t!”
Andrew sat the jug down on the bar along with two empty mugs. He glanced between the two of them, shook his head, and then declared, “I’ll leave you to it.”
“You didn’t!” exclaimed Oliver again.
“I said we needed to talk,” mumbled Sam.
“About… about this?” cried Oliver. “You slept with my paramour, didn’t you?”
“Is she your paramour?” snapped Sam, looking up to meet his glare. “It sure seemed to me like you regretted the dalliance and were trying to avoid her. She said you hadn’t contacted her since the night you were together. Is that true?”
“I didn’t send her a note quick enough, so you moved in?” accused Oliver. “Are you just hanging around me hoping I cast off some noblewoman you can stick your… your…”
“Tongue?” asked Sam coldly. “Is that the word you’re looking for?”
Oliver blinked at her. “Well, actually, I was thinking… Is that how you do it?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” muttered Sam, grabbing the ale jug and sloshing a pour into her mug.
“I thought…” Oliver raised his hands, moving his palms and fingers into a complex matrix. “Well, isn’t…”
“Is that supposed to be a leg?” wondered Sam, pointing to one finger which stuck out from the pattern he was forming.
“That’s an arm, here… Ah, the legs are down below.”
“Well, no, that’s completely wrong,” said Sam. She tried to rearrange his fingers but then gave up. She explained, “It is simple. Two women do the same things that a woman and a man would do.”
He frowned at her. “Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with how that goes, but the man takes his penis and—”
“I know that part!” cried Sam. “I meant with your mouth and your tongue. Don’t you ever, you know, go down?”
“Go down?”
“Do you kiss the girls… down there?”
“Of course not,” huffed Oliver. “Why would they even want that?”
“Do you like it when they do it for you?”
Oliver ran a hand over his hair, checking the knot in the back, and snatched the ale mug from in front of her, taking a long pull instead of answering her question.
“If you like it, don’t you think they would like it too?” pressed Sam. “Surely someone, at least once, has asked for that.”
They sat quietly for a long moment. Then, he replied, “When you have a penis, you don’t need to do things like that.”
“It’s no wonder girls go looking for other girls,” responded Sam with a sigh.
“No one has ever complained,” he muttered.
“Just because they don’t complain to you doesn’t mean they aren’t complaining,” replied Sam.
Another long moment passed, and they both drained a mug and half another.
Oliver asked, “How did it happen? Did you two start talking and she… Did she complain? Perhaps she wasn’t fully satisfied, but we had little time. It was in a moving carriage, and well, she’s inexperienced. It’s hard when—”
“No,” interjected Sam. “She didn’t complain about you if that makes you feel any better. It wasn’t about you at all.”
“What happened, then?” questioned Oliver. He was torn between confusion and disbelief. He knew how the girl had pursued him. She’d wanted it even more than he had, but he couldn’t fool himself. Why else had Sam’s trousers been unlaced coming out of Isisandra’s front door in the middle of the night?
“It-it’s hard to explain,” mumbled Sam. “I went there, as we discussed, to try and shake some information out of her. While
I was there, I figured out why she seemed so inexperienced to you. To me, she acted so confident… It turns out I was right. I caught her looking. I voiced my suspicion, and she admitted that she’d been with women before. Lots of them, I imagine, though in Archtan Atoll they all would have been her subordinates. That’s different from… from what we did.”
“So, before we ever met her, you think she preferred girls?” wondered Oliver.
“I’m sure she did,” claimed Sam.
“Did,” murmured Oliver, rubbing his chin. “You think she’s into men, now? Perhaps after she and I were together, she realized what she was missing.”
“N-no,” stammered Sam. “I didn’t say that at all.”
“You said ‘did’,” argued Oliver. “As in, past tense.”
“I, ah…” Sam trailed off and tilted up her ale mug. When she sat it down, she turned to look into Oliver’s eyes and put a hand on his arm. “I’m sure you were amazing, but believe me when I say this, Isisandra likes girls. It’s the way she is, and you’re not going to change her mind.”
“Well, at least it’s a good excuse I can tell my brother,” grumbled Oliver.
He was torn between curling tendrils of jealousy, disbelief, and relief that he wouldn’t have to either marry the young countess or find some creative way to brush her off. He fought hard to cling to that fleeting sense of relief and push down the rest of it.
He finished his ale and poured another round. “So, I’m assuming you didn’t find any clues? I’m guessing you were too busy rolling around with her? Did you even try to question her?”
Sam collected her newly filled mug and shrugged. “What would she gain from killing her parents?”
“Immense wealth,” reminded Oliver. “Or a chance to come back from the colonies and rule like a queen.”
“She had immense wealth,” replied Sam, shaking her head. “Her parents certainly didn’t seem to stint on anything she wanted. You saw her rooms in Archtan Atoll, and they’re even more extravagant here. I don’t think her father would have hesitated at purchasing anything for his only daughter. From what we saw before he was killed, she had him wrapped around her finger. Not to mention, at eighteen winters, she is of presentable age. She could have come back on her own, lived exactly as she is now, and gained even more wealth while her father collected on Company shares. The governor had no other heirs, so anything he accumulated would eventually pass to her. The fact is, the governor was worth more to the girl alive than dead.”