Death's Executioner

by Charlotte E. English

  Karyavin glowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Alexander paused to consider. ‘And I think we will set Tasha on the question of illegal poison trades.’

  The inspector’s undead police ward did seem to have an unhealthy talent for — and questionable degree of experience with — the various underworld activities of the city, that was true. Shady little creature, Tasha. She intrigued Konrad immensely.

  Konrad excused himself, and took himself off to Nanda’s shop.

  Chapter Three

  Upon entering Nanda’s fragrant shop, redolent with the aromas of the dried plants she stored and sold, he was greeted not by Nanda herself but by Weveroth. He sat — no, no, she, this was officially a lady monkey now — in the centre of Nan’s scrupulously clean counter, her long golden tail wrapped around her feet. She sat tall, like a little sentinel, and gave Konrad what he would swear was the evil eye as he walked in.

  ‘Wevey,’ Konrad greeted, and held out a few fingers for her to reacquaint herself with.

  Weveroth high-tailed it through the rear door into Nanda’s workroom, without a second glance at Konrad.

  ‘Oh!’ said Nanda a moment later, quite as though the monkey had told her who had come to call. She came straight through, drying her hands on a strip of towel, and beamed at Konrad in a manner he found more than sufficient to make up for Weveroth’s lack of interest. ‘I thought you’d be at your club today.’

  ‘And I almost made it there.’ Konrad leaned casually upon the counter, trying not to too obviously scan the sealed pots and jars arrayed upon shelves all around the room. ‘Something came up.’

  ‘Something distasteful, and more closely involving a dead body than either of us would prefer?’

  ‘Right. We have a dead lady, almost certainly poisoned.’

  ‘And here I thought you stopped by just to see me.’ Nanda’s smile faded.

  ‘I would have,’ Konrad said. ‘Later. I’m just earlier than planned.’

  ‘You only love me for my esoteric know-how.’

  ‘Creepy know-how, too. Don’t forget creepy.’

  ‘Knowing how to kill people with plants is creepy? Pot, meet kettle.’

  ‘Yes, but we knew I was creepy. Comes with the job.’

  ‘Upon that point I cannot disagree. Let me have the details, then.’ The humour faded from Nanda’s face as she transformed into the capable apothecary, poison-mistress and shopkeeper Konrad had first known.

  He related everything the Order had concluded during their examination, together with the few clues he had gleaned from the appearance of Verinka’s corpse, and the scant facts they had thus far uncovered about her life. Nanda listened without interruption.

  ‘Well,’ she said when he had drawn his narration to a close. ‘I do have a possible answer for you, but you aren’t going to like it.’

  Konrad sighed. ‘All right. I can take it.’

  ‘There is a poison I know of that fits your requirements. It’s known as widow weed in the trade.’

  ‘That’s… an unusual name.’

  ‘Bear with me. It used to be a staple of the trade some years ago, because in small doses it is said to be effective for those kinds of stomach ailments ladies tend to suffer from about once a month.’

  ‘Nicely put.’

  ‘Yes. But it fell out of favour. It happened that quite a lot of women began dropping dead after some kind of unidentifiable sickness. It was thought to be a dangerous infectious disease, because it sometimes happened among whole groups of friends. It eventually emerged that they’d all been using this remedy. Recommending it to each other, you know.’

  ‘Um. That’s horrific.’

  ‘Rather. What happened after that was fun, too, because a few put-upon married ladies began using it to solve quite a different problem.’

  ‘Hence widow weed.’

  ‘Quite. The trade and use of it’s now banned in Assevan, and Marja, and probably beyond. Which is the part I think you aren’t going to like. It’s many years since it was last possible to buy widow weed anywhere. So how did your poisoner get hold of it?’

  ‘You’re sure it has to be that one? It couldn’t be something else?’

  ‘It’s not impossible, of course, but I would say with reasonable certainty that it’s widow weed. There are other poisons that might be relevant, but no others that produce quite those symptoms, or which take weeks or months to kill the victim. So undetectably, too. Blacklung might do it, but it causes horrific coughing, hence the name—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Konrad interrupted. ‘I trust your judgement. Different question. Where might a person get hold of widow weed, if not from a trader? Is it a black-market thing?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure that you couldn’t get it illegally,’ Nan replied. ‘I… don’t know. It is a native to Assevan, but it’s not a plant that ever grew in any abundance, to my knowledge, despite being called a weed. It takes some effort to find, and harvest, and I doubt anyone’s gone to the trouble much since it was banned.’

  ‘Banning something often makes it more desirable,’ Konrad pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but it used to be popular as a remedy, not a poison. Once people stopped using it to treat stomach cramps — because it was incredibly unsafe — demand for it virtually died out. And I doubt there are enough unhappy wives with a murderous streak to make it worth anyone’s time in securing a supply for a black market venture.’

  ‘I see your point. Or disapproving brothers.’

  Nanda shook her head. ‘It can’t have been him. Or at least, not for the reason she claimed.’

  ‘You’re sure of that how?’

  ‘The logic doesn’t fit. Think about it. Whether he and his sister were genuinely close or not, if Tsevar hated this Kristov enough to kill someone over it, he’d have killed Kristov. Why kill Verinka? How could that ever make sense?’

  The same thought had crossed Konrad’s mind, but remembering the certainty with which Verinka had named both her supposed murderer and his motive, he hadn’t been willing to dismiss the idea out of hand. But Nanda was right. No part of it held any water.

  ‘Let me hear the symptoms again,’ Nanda said. ‘Just to be sure. No coughing?’

  ‘I haven’t specifically asked whether she was coughing, but no one mentioned it. Her brother said she’d been experiencing unwonted lethargy, complained of aches and pains in her head and limbs. Nothing to cause all that much alarm; no one seems to have thought she was in any real danger of her life.’

  Nanda considered, but shook her head. ‘I still can’t think of an alternative that fits. I think widow weed is your poison. It produces just the effects you describe, prompting a few extra visits to the doctor in its victims, but no great alarm for his or her life — and then, after some weeks or months of regular doses, fatal heart failure occurs. But I can’t imagine how anybody got hold of it, especially at this time of year. I’m afraid I cannot help you with that problem.’

  Konrad, on an impulse, kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve helped a great deal already. Thank you.’

  Nanda rewarded him with a quizzical look. ‘What next, then?’

  ‘One more question. Is widow weed ingested or inhaled?’

  ‘Ingested. Women used to make tea out of it, but you could also put it in food easily enough.’

  That absolutely dismissed Alexander’s admittedly intriguing idea about the pipe. ‘Thanks, Nan. Coming for dinner?’

  ‘Will you be home for dinner? You don’t time-keep too well when you’re on a case.’

  ‘If I fail to make it home in time, you can have Mrs. Aristova’s delectables all to yourself.’

  That brought the smile back to Nanda’s face. ‘They’re nowhere near as much fun if I can’t press too many of them on you.’

  ‘Life is suffering.’ Konrad tipped his hat, and made his retreat. ‘I’ll be… somewhere.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Nanda called.

  This being unlike her, Konrad paused. ‘I’m always careful.’

 
; ‘No, you aren’t,’ Nanda retorted. ‘You are reckless and foolish and heedless. But you can’t afford to be that way anymore.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ Konrad promised, faithfully enough.

  ‘Either that or you’ll be dead. For always. I don’t know about you, but I know which of the two I would prefer.’

  ‘Am I reckless?’ Konrad said an hour later, having found his way to the Larch eating-house. Alexander was still there, with Karyavin, though the rest of his retinue had apparently busied themselves elsewhere. He found the inspector stationed in the front hall, unlit pipe in hand. The ever-eager Karyavin was just visible disappearing through a door into what was probably the dining parlour.

  ‘Reckless?’ said Alexander, emerging from a reverie. ‘Somewhat.’

  ‘I was hoping for a no.’

  ‘Nanda say something?’ said Alexander shrewdly. ‘She does have a talent for getting straight to the heart of things.’

  Konrad clutched at his chest. ‘Straight to the heart, with a perfect rapier-strike.’

  ‘She is an extraordinary woman.’

  ‘Quite. She says it’s most likely widow weed, but cannot say where it was procured.’

  Alexander listened quietly as Konrad relayed Nanda’s opinion, and ended by putting the stem of his pipe back in his mouth. He inhaled. Konrad wondered whether he noticed that no smoke came pouring out. ‘I was hoping for a clearer answer,’ he conceded.

  ‘Me too. It may be that our poisoner’s of a certain age, though. Might have to be, to remember widow weed.’

  ‘Could be. Nanda knew of it, of course, and she isn’t elderly.’

  ‘No, but it’s her profession.’

  Alexander conceded the point with a nod. ‘As to how it was got hold of, well, it might be something as simple as an old jar forgotten at the back of somebody’s store cupboard. Such things deteriorate with time, of course, but might still be potent enough to have the desired effect.’

  ‘That, or someone who knows what they are doing planned this back in the growing season, and managed to find enough wild widow weed to lay in a supply.’

  ‘It could also be that.’

  ‘How did you get on here?’ Konrad took his first real look at the Larch eating-house, and found it contrary to his half-formed expectations. The place was no passable eatery for purse-poor social climbers, as he had (perhaps snobbishly) assumed. The house may be of modest proportions but it was sumptuously decorated. Expensive figured wallpaper met fine oak wainscoting halfway down the walls; crystal sconces and chandeliers cast a tasteful, clear light around the room; oil paintings hung in ornate frames, echoing the carvings gracing the not-too-comfortable furniture. Either the club had ambitions, or it was already patronised by a wealthier and more superior class of customer than Konrad had considered. In which case, what had Verinka and her brother been doing here every single week?

  ‘I have mortally offended the cook and the entire kitchen staff,’ Alexander answered.

  ‘That was fast work.’

  ‘Yes, well. Police inspector I may be, but to so much as imply that they might have been serving contaminated food to any customer whatsoever was a mortal insult, I’m afraid. I’ve sent Karyavin in to try again. He’s good at this sort of thing.’

  Alexander was himself good at “this sort of thing”, Konrad knew, being mild-mannered and sympathetic enough to stay on most people’s good side. The chef of this handsome establishment must be an artiste of fine sensibilities. Or just a grouch. ‘While we’re hiding out here,’ Konrad began—

  ‘I am not hiding,’ Alexander interrupted. ‘I have paused here to think.’

  ‘Whenever you’ve finished thinking,’ Konrad continued smoothly. ‘I’ve a notion it might be a good idea to consult the visitor register, if they have such a thing. Or the membership lists.’

  Never slow to catch on, Alexander said: ‘Ah. You think the mysterious Kristov might have been a member, too?’

  ‘If he was making it his business to stick to Verinka, it seems possible. And the neighbours suggested she went out regularly, more than once a week. Yes, she was an inveterate walker, it seems, but she was also increasingly ill. Perhaps she had a strong reason to be going out.’

  ‘Like meeting the suitor she seems to have favoured.’ Alexander, energised, set off in search of the club’s manager, with Konrad close behind.

  They found the man in the dining-parlour, engaged in some manner of dispute with a waiter. The club would soon open, Konrad judged, the luncheon-hour nearing. He could not imagine what the manager could possibly find fault with; the place was gleaming, spotless and sumptuous. He looked up as they approached, his gaze travelling straight past the inspector with a total lack of interest.

  It settled upon Konrad, and his eyes brightened.

  Definitely a place with ambitions, Konrad thought.

  Alexander went through his usual courtesies, introduced himself and his errand, and politely requested a look at the club’s membership records, but the man gave this speech scant attention. ‘My members?’ he said when the inspector had finished. ‘Goodness, no. That information cannot be made public. Our members’ privacy is of paramount importance to the Larch Club.’

  ‘And one of your members has been killed,’ said Alexander, losing some of his politeness. ‘In suspicious circumstances which, I am afraid to say, may relate to your club. It is of paramount importance to me to ascertain who else regularly dined here.’

  That got the manager’s attention, but in no helpful way. He drew himself up to his admittedly superior height, dark brows winging down over a thunderous forehead, and stared down the inspector as though he were some manner of social inferior begging for a table. ‘You must be mistaken, sir,’ said he with withering scorn. ‘It cannot possibly have had anything to do with my club.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Konrad mildly interrupted, ‘whether you might remember the lady in question? Verinka Tarasovna.’

  The manager transferred his frown to Konrad, who summoned his most supercilious air in response. The frown altered. Less offended, more… disapproving. His mouth made a moue of disdain.

  Or was it disdain? For he said immediately: ‘Madam Tarasovna is dead?’

  ‘She passed away this morning.’

  ‘That is a great pity,’ said the manager.

  ‘A long-standing member, was she?’

  ‘She had been coming to us for the past year. Perhaps a little more. She was always very welcome.’

  ‘She ate here weekly with her brother, I understand?’

  ‘They were so good as to honour us with their regular custom.’

  ‘Did she ever meet anybody else here?’

  ‘She had the honour of sometimes dining here with—’ The manager, becoming aware, perhaps, that he was being obliging, broke off, and the frown returned. ‘Are you perhaps thinking of becoming a member, sir?’

  ‘I might,’ said Konrad, with a faint smile. ‘If I am sufficiently pleased.’

  The moue returned. ‘I do not make a habit of indiscretion, sir.’

  ‘But you are helping a police investigation pertaining to one of your beloved members, so I am sure you can make an exception today.’

  The manager gave a barely perceptible sigh, and fractionally unbent. ‘She was occasionally seen in company with Mr. Balandin.’ The manager uttered this name with a special kind of reverence, and by the look of him only barely restrained himself from offering a bow to the mere idea of the man.

  ‘Would that be Mr. Kristov Balandin?’ said Alexander.

  ‘Among our most esteemed members.’

  ‘Well-dressed?’ Konrad said, with some scepticism.

  ‘He is a man of excellent taste.’

  ‘Free with money, then.’ It had to be either the appearance he presented in the lunch-club’s dining parlour, or his readiness to throw enormous sums at his meals. If he had been a person of great social consequence in Ekamet, Konrad would have heard of him.

  The manager gave a co
ugh. ‘He likes to dine well.’

  Yes, then. ‘Is Mr. Balandin likely to be dining here again soon?’

  ‘Would you be wanting to meet him here, sir?’ The manager’s disapproval had gone, vanished in place of something more like cunning.

  Konrad resigned himself to the inevitable. ‘I am greatly desirous of doing so,’ he said, not without some truth.

  ‘We shall be delighted to have you as a member, sir.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Mr. Balandin frequently joins us on Fridays.’

  ‘Then I shall be here on Friday.’

  Karyavin returned half an hour later, munching upon something sweet-smelling, and joined Konrad and Alexander in the dining-parlour.

  ‘I see you’ve been getting on better with the cook than I did,’ said the inspector, peering at his subordinate over his menu.

  Karyavin gave a sheepish grin. ‘Reminds me of my aunt.’

  ‘Very well. What did you find out?’

  ‘They do run a tight ship down there, sir. Hard to see how anyone could have consistently tainted Miss Tarasovna’s food. It might have been one of the kitchen staff, but I think it more likely to be a waiter. If anybody.’

  Alexander nodded. ‘More precision that way. Have you talked to the waiters?’

  ‘Yes. Nobody stood out as a suspect.’

  ‘All right. Ask around about the mighty Mr. Balandin, would you? He seems to be properly lionised around here.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Karyavin gazed with some curiosity at the spectacle of his police inspector settling in for a comfortable lunch with the picture of a fine gentleman Konrad presented, and wisely said nothing.

  His face, however, said enough.

  ‘It’s not about the food,’ Alexander said after a moment. ‘We’re here to observe the guests.’

  ‘And the waiters,’ Konrad added.

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Karyavin excused himself and went off upon the inspector’s errands.

  For some moments there was silence.

  Then, ‘I can’t decide whether you are wonderful or terrible for my credibility,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Some of both. Come, we do have to eat, and I do want an opportunity to get the measure of the waiters. And to see whether either Tsevar or Kristov shows up. Don’t you?’