“Oh, you think it was a rock, I know,” Lestrade countered. “So then, why did we not find your blood-and-hair-covered murder rock, eh?”
“Because the murder took place next to a pond. If you had just killed a man and found yourself standing with a bloodstained rock next to a pool of water, what would you do? Rocks are not known for their buoyancy, after all, and let us remember that James McCarthy reported hearing splashing.”
“Your mysterious Australian murder-man theory makes no sense,” Lestrade complained.
“Oh, I think it makes a great deal more sense than James McCarthy killing his father,” I scoffed.
“Why? They often fought.”
“Then let me ask you, Lestrade: did James intend to murder his father by the pond that day?”
“Why not?”
“Because, if he had planned the murder, he’d have planned his story. And yes: full points for bizarre creativity with this disappearing, reappearing cloak and all. But here’s what his story does not do: it in no way exonerates him. Instead he keeps saying, ‘I probably deserve it,’ and, ‘I can’t explain what happened.’ Does it seem like a prepared alibi to you?”
“Well…” said Lestrade, “he is a bit… stupid.”
“Not that stupid,” I laughed. “He’s not an imbecile. He’s just a plain fellow. And I suggest we consider the notion that he may be dealing plainly with us.”
“Yah! Torg think so!” Grogsson bellowed, giving me a supportive shoulder slap that sent me sprawling against Holmes.
Lestrade gave a little smile at my rough treatment and suggested, “Or perhaps his story is so rudimentary because he did not have it prepared. Perhaps it was a crime of passion.”
Pushing myself off Holmes and gathering as much dignity as I could, I said, “That makes even less sense. A crime of passion? If that were the case, then in his moment of fury James would not only have had to resist shooting his father with the loaded gun he was currently holding, he’d also have to have had the foresight to avoid clubbing him with it. Do you think that’s what happened? Do you think he set his gun carefully aside and went to look for a rock?”
“Or a fairy,” Holmes pointed out, eager to keep his theory in the debate.
“And let us remember,” I said, “that the wound is to the back of Mr. McCarthy’s head on the left-hand side. It’s hard to surprise someone from behind when you’re having an argument. Also, unless the attack was a back-swing, the murderer is most likely left-handed. Now… is John Turner left-handed?”
Everybody shrugged.
“Damn,” I muttered. “I was hoping someone would know. I would have looked awfully smart just then. Humph… I bet he is, though.”
“Why do you keep thinking it’s John Turner?” Lestrade asked, with audible frustration. “The man is a dying invalid!”
“It’s to do with Charles McCarthy’s final words. James said he was trying to say something about ‘a rat’.”
“A fairy name!” Holmes insisted. “Ricky-Ticky-Ratty! Rataghast! Ratatouille!”
“You just made those up!” Lestrade shouted.
“Except for the one that is a French vegetable stew,” I added.
“Well, what do you think it means then, Mr. Smarty?” Holmes pouted.
“James McCarthy said his father met John Turner west of Melbourne, Australia.”
“So?” said at least two of my companions.
“West of Melbourne,” I said. “Ballarat.”
Grogsson gave a huge bellow of triumph, as if my final point erased all doubt, which—I will admit—it did not. Both Holmes and Lestrade seemed still willing to press their theories, but Grogsson’s exuberant display robbed them of their chance. Even as the echoes of his roar faded, the long-absent butler burst back through the door and demanded, “What noise is this? I don’t know if you cretins remember it, but there is a man dying in that room! What possibly could be so important that you must argue it with such vigor right outside a death-bed chamber?”
I did not care for his tone.
“To be honest,” I said, “we were discussing if your master is Charles McCarthy’s murderer, or if the whole thing was done by fairies.”
Let me just say that if the butler was well-pleased by my answer, his face did not convey it.
“Get out,” he growled. “Leave this house. My master will not see you.”
“Unacceptable, I’m afraid,” I said, then turned to my largest companion and added, “Grogsson, please inform this fellow that yes, in fact, we will be seen.”
This, Grogsson accomplished with a single backhanded swat that sent the butler rocketing across the ante-chamber until he smashed into the stairway railing. The collision knocked free all the man’s breath, all the man’s half-digested lunch, and no small quantity of blood. The only rebuttal the unfortunate butler mounted was to curl up into a ball and roll insensibly down the stairs.
“Hmmm…” I noted. “It looks as if my list of patients that won’t be paying for my services just increased by one. But that’s a concern for a later hour. For now: to business, gentlemen.”
Inside the chamber, we found John Turner lying on his bed, surrounded by a magnificent pile of cushions and one whisker-sprout of a country doctor, who seemed to have no other course of treatment prepared than to sit and await the inevitable. Which is not to say he was wrong. Both of Turner’s legs had swollen to prodigious size; he was pallid and gray. His every breath seemed to be a trial for him, and his eyes bespoke a profound and insurmountable lethargy. I’d seen it before. Even from across the room, I could diagnose him.
Kidney failure.
Nothing to be done.
Some incense had been lit to keep the smell pleasant, but the thing that really stood out was the collection of large gray stones spread out in what I supposed was meant to be a decorative arrangement. But then, there is no accounting for taste, they say.
Turner’s eyes rose to meet us as we walked in, and—summoning with great effort something of the masterful air that was his habit—he demanded, “Gentlemen, what is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“We want to know why you killed Charles McCarthy,” I told him.
He gave a splutter of surprise and mumbled, “Oh? Hmm…. well… that’s inconvenient.” Then, realizing what he’d said, he gave a sudden start and demanded of his doctor, “Ah! Alice! Is she here?”
“No, sir,” the doctor said gently. “You did not wish for her to see your final moments. Don’t you remember? Your farewells have been said. She is gone.”
“Well thank God for that,” the old man sighed. “Don’t want her hearing all this mess, do I? You go, too. Thank you for your help, but bugger off!”
“But, sir, you may have only minutes.”
“Well then, what good are you doing anyway? Go on! Out with you!”
As soon as the doctor was gone, and we heard his footsteps receding down the stairs, Turner grumbled, “All right, how did you figure it out?”
What a moment! Lestrade forgot all caution in hiding his fangs and let his mouth droop open. Grogsson let out another victory cry. Holmes, I must say, looked rather crestfallen. I’m sure if he’d known this would only be a matter of people killing people with no fey involvement, he’d have stayed home.
“It was the cloak, chiefly,” I told him. “Young McCarthy spotted it as he returned to his father’s side. But before he rose again, it was gone. As I read it, you discarded it to do your mischief, then spirited it away while James was distracted.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Turner grumbled. “I don’t move as quick as I used to, you know. But it’s hard to go out without a cover, nowadays. These old bones get cold.”
“What I don’t understand is this: after so many years of living so close to Charles McCarthy, what suddenly induced you to kill him?”
“Ha! It’s because I heard what he and that dratted son of his were arguing over! I don’t suppose James McCarthy told you about that, eh? Didn’t tell you about his little ‘visits�
�� to Bristol, did he?”
“Not in detail,” I admitted.
“Poor bastard!” Turner laughed. “He’s a handsome lad, isn’t he? Attracted the eye of some scheming barmaid a few years back. Got all tangled up with her. Got married, in fact. Tried to keep it secret, but we all knew. His father—that black goat—always had the gall to assume young James would marry my Alice! Seemed to think it a fine way to rob me of all I had once I was gone! But then, since we all knew James was married, it seemed like the joke was on him!”
“Well then, what changed?”
“That day at the pool, Charles told James what he’d just found out: that weaselly little barmaid was already married. And—seeing as she’s not allowed more than one—James had never been quite so spoken for as he’d thought. So now the joke was back on me again! James is not such a bad fellow, I guess. But he’s his father’s son! That’s enough! I’d never let that man’s foul blood mingle with my own! I had to do something!”
“You could have simply said no.”
“But that’s just it! I couldn’t! Don’t you see? Charles McCarthy had been blackmailing me for years!”
“Which explains why he lived rent free,” I said with a nod.
“On my best land!”
“And, unless I miss my guess, because of something that happened in Ballarat, Australia.”
“Yes,” Turner breathed. “I’ve no idea how you guessed it, but… I was a bush ranger. Do you know what that is?”
I’ll admit that was a bit of a surprise. “Something like a highwayman, isn’t it?”
“Something very like a highwayman, yes. The Ballarat Gang, they called us. Used to hold up the stagecoaches from the gold field and take all they had. Wasn’t easy work, mind, as they always went guarded. Charles McCarthy was one of those guards. Oh, sometimes a rover and a robber, no doubt. There’s many of us who walked whichever side of the fence the money was on, one week to the next. But the day we met, he was on the right side of the law and I the wrong. The robbery went bad. We blew the surprise. They heard us, I think. There were six of us when we set out, and only five of them, but their first volley cleared half of us out of our saddles. We fired back—and we gave them right hell—but the odds were against us. Finally, there were none alive but McCarthy and me. There I was, shot through the leg and in the side, leaning up with my back against a great gray rock with no bullets left in my gun and no strength to drag myself to my dead friends to borrow more. And that’s when I heard him for the first time. The spirit in the gray stone…”
I think I must have made a bit of a face. Lestrade’s jaw dropped open another notch. Grogsson looked deeply puzzled. Holmes, it must be said, perked right up. “A fairy? A boggart?” he asked enthusiastically.
Turner nodded. “Bogh-Harrat—that’s what he called himself—the Bog-Hearted Boggart of Ballarat!”
“Yes! I love him!” Holmes cried.
“Said he’d a mind to cut a deal with me, so long as I’d deal with him,” Turner continued. “Said he’d get me out safe and sound and with all the gold, so long as I’d pledge my troth to him and give him a kidney.”
“A kidney?” said Holmes and I together; I with disgust and Holmes with unalloyed delight.
“He said it’d be all right, as a man may live without a kidney. And there I sat with no bullets and no choices. So, I gave it to him.”
“Did it hurt?” Holmes wanted to know.
“Not at all. He magicked it out, I guess. Never felt a thing. Next I knew the air was alive with flying stones. I never thought I’d see a thing like that! One of ’em dashed McCarthy on the head and down he went, senseless. I almost shot him as he lay there. By God, if only I had! But there’s a sympathy you feel when you know it should have been you that died that day. I let him go. But I took that gold! And it was a pretty share, too. Made my way clear of the country and bought up all this land out here. I even got a special dispensation from the Crown to name this place Boggart Valley, after Bogh-Harrat!”
“Oh, what did it used to be?” I wondered.
“Boscombe, of all stupid things. I thought the whole thing was behind me. But wouldn’t you know, that bastard McCarthy went back to the same site a few years later to figure out what happened. He put himself behind that same old rock and wondered aloud what had passed.”
“And Bogh-Harrat, the Bog-Hearted Boggart of Ballarat told him!” Holmes enthused.
“Backstabbing bastard fairy! Yes, he did! Six months later, McCarthy showed up here, talking about what a fine, law-abiding country England was, how there was always a constable on hand when one was needed. And he lived here on my land ever since!”
“Until you heard his son was free to marry your daughter,” I said. “Until you picked up a stone and dashed his head in! Oh, and you’re left-handed, aren’t you?”
“Well… sort of…” he muttered. “I mean, I am left-handed. Most fellows who can hear a fairy are, you know. But I don’t have the strength to go crushing any skulls, nowadays. I just squeezed my eyes shut real tight and thought, ‘Bogh-Harrat, you rotten sprite! This is all your fault! You told me you’d make things right, so why don’t you do it?’ And I heard a little whisper in my head. Even after all those years, he was still with me! Said he’d take care of McCarthy once and for all. And all he wanted…”
I put my brow down into my hand, shook my head, and finished Turner’s sentence for him. “…was your other kidney. Well, I suppose that explains the sudden downturn in your health.”
“What? No. There is no relation,” Turner protested. “A man may live without a kidney!”
“Yes. A kidney. One. But a man may not live without both kidneys.”
“Both?” he spluttered. “What do you mean, both? Are you trying to imply that a man has naught but two kidneys?”
“Well… yes.”
A worried look began to steal across John Turner’s face, but he tried to play it off. “Bah! Have you ever considered how many kidneys a man might regrow over the long years of his life?”
“None,” I informed him.
“Oh?” said he. And then, “Oh.” A look of profound disappointment crossed his features. All the strength seemed to leave him. He slumped in his bed, gave a sad, tired shake of his head, muttered, “Stupid fairy,” and slipped into that dreamless sleep from which he nevermore awakened.
“Idiot,” I noted.
And I might have said more if it were not for a sudden, high-pitched “Squeeeeeeeeeeee!” followed by one of the head-sized gray rocks flinging itself across the room. I leapt aside with a cry of alarm, but poor Torg was caught entirely by surprise. The rock smashed into one side of his face at thirty or forty miles per hour. I think the force was more than sufficient to batter down a fortified prison door.
“Ow! Hey!” Grogsson protested and rubbed at his cheek.
For those of us who were not quite so durable, matters were worse. “Squeee! Squeee! Squeeeeee!” went the rocks, as they came at us from all sides.
“Look out!” Holmes shouted. “He’s Northumbrian!”
Yet the particular provenance of my antagonist did not trouble me nearly so much as the few hundred pounds of stone assailing me from all sides. Lestrade’s eyes went wide for a moment but—when it came right down to it—Lestrade was a vampire, and vampires are quick. He zipped this way and that, avoiding all harm, wearing an expression more of wonder than of fear. Grogsson took a few hits, but the more common outcome was for him to catch one of the incoming projectiles and fling it through the nearest wall with twice the force it had before.
Holmes seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Melfrizoth!” he called, and his burning black soul-blade appeared in his hand. The next time a rock came at him, he sidestepped and swung his mighty weapon through the air. The hapless rock was struck in twain, even as it flew.
Which was not helpful, if I’m honest.
I mean, it’s not as if he stopped the thing. Now there were two pieces of rock hurtling about. And as a special
bonus: though it had been rounded before, now it had sharp edges. Plus, as if I did not have enough to try and keep my eyes on, now I had to worry about Holmes flailing about with a God-killing weapon like a happy young boy with his favorite stick. Sure, a good hit from one of those rocks might end me, but the slightest touch from Melfrizoth most definitely would.
I dipped!
I dodged!
I whirled!
I got my left leg all tangled up with my right one and went down like a drunken moose! My face bounced off John Turner’s floor with enough force to bloody my nose and set my head whirling. Half-stunned, I rolled over onto my back.
There, hovering near the ceiling above me, was the biggest, grayest rock of them all.
Cheeky bugger! He’d just been waiting for his chance.
“Squeeeee!” he cried, and flung himself down at me.
Dazed from my fall, I had no time to dodge it. I didn’t even manage to get my arms up to ward off the blow.
Instead, Holmes lunged towards me and thrust Melfrizoth forward. The ebon blade struck through the center of the falling stone, impaling it and stopping it just a few inches above my face – which, of course, it should not have been able to do. But what were physics when Holmes was in a mood? The black blade sang with the impact. Not that high-pitched “tiiiiiiiiing” steel makes, but a low, keening moan like a dolorous human voice.
“Um… right… thanks for that,” I mumbled.
But Holmes didn’t hear me. In his deep, demonic voice he intoned, “Bogh-Harrat! Bogh-Harrat, your name is known to me! Cease this outrage!”
The rocks hesitated for a moment, then clunked down to the floor. From the air around us, a disembodied speaker replied, “You have killed my chosen mortal!”
And do you know, he did sound more Northumbrian than Australian.
Which is not to say he sounded particularly reasonable. Shaking some of the cobwebs from my brain, I said, “Wait just a moment! You killed your chosen mortal!”
“What do you mean?” the empty air demanded.
“You took both his kidneys!”
“Well… I was hungry.”
“That is no excuse!”
The Finality Problem Page 9