Death's Executioner

by Charlotte E. English

  All conversations came to an abrupt halt when the front door swung open, and Tsevar himself strode in. His entire demeanour had altered, since last time Konrad had met him. At Verinka’s house, just receiving the news of her death, he had seemed rather short and unassuming. Walking into his own offices, however, surrounded by his business and his goods and his employees, he had… one might even call it a swagger. His brow contracted when he saw Konrad and the inspector, and a little of the assurance went out of him.

  He covered it with bluster.

  ‘Surely there can be no reason to trouble me at my work?’ he snapped.

  ‘Our apologies for interrupting you here, sir,’ said Alexander mildly. ‘We had one or two more questions to ask you about your sister.’

  Tsevar schooled his features into a more composed expression, tinged with sadness. ‘Poor Verinka. Yes, yes. I cannot spare a great deal of time, mind.’

  ‘It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes,’ Alexander assured him.

  Tsevar waited expectantly.

  ‘Ah,’ said Konrad. ‘Perhaps it would be better to speak privately? Your office, say?’

  Tsevar darted a glance at his clerk, who waited patiently to be noticed, and stalked off towards the stairs. ‘Certainly, certainly,’ he said, marching up them.

  He shut the door behind his unwanted visitors the moment they were inside, with just a hint of a slam. Konrad watched as he crossed to his desk, and sat behind it. Perhaps he felt more powerful there. ‘Very well, then. What—’ His eye fell on the pipe, and he stopped. His frown deepened.

  ‘Something wrong, sir?’ said Alexander.

  ‘No,’ said Tsevar shortly, but his frown did not lessen. He stalked back to the door, and rang a bell-pull; a clanging sounded distantly, somewhere below.

  The clerk appeared twenty seconds later. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘What is this doing in here?’ said Tsevar, picking up the pipe and brandishing it in some irritation.

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir. Shall I take it?’

  ‘I want to know how it came to be in here. We can’t have—’ He broke off again, staring at the pipe. Konrad felt a moment’s unease; had he noticed the damage? But the businessman’s face slowly turned white, and he put the pipe down on his desk as if he did not want to touch it anymore. ‘Verinka?’ he gasped. Then a spasm of anger wiped away whatever else he had been feeling; he rounded on Konrad and the inspector. ‘Did you do this? Did you put this here?’

  ‘I did,’ Konrad admitted. ‘I wanted to know if you had seen it before.’

  ‘Spirits, man, why did you not just ask me?’

  Konrad said, as delicately as he could, ‘People are not always forthcoming.’

  Tsevar gave a great sigh, and sagged into his chair. In response to the clerk’s repeated offer of assistance, he waved him away with an impatient gesture, and sat staring at the pipe. ‘She was betraying me,’ he said at last.

  Konrad’s brows rose; unexpected. ‘How so?’

  ‘That pipe. She begged me to involve her more in the business — wanted to see the offices, the warehouses, the stores. Wanted to know all about what we do. I did not trust her, I confess, for she had never shown any interest before. But I chose to hope…’ He shrugged. ‘Well. That pipe is one of mine, but I didn’t give it to her. She must have taken it. And you know what?’ His brow darkened still further. ‘She took it to him, didn’t she? Kristov. That sneak. He—’ Words failed him, apparently, for he subsided into seething silence.

  ‘It was found in your sister’s possession when she died,’ said the inspector, and hesitated. Probably he was wondering how to broach the topic of the secreted diamond.

  Konrad interrupted. ‘How did you know Verinka took it?’

  Tsevar shifted in his seat, and would not meet Konrad’s eye. ‘I… guessed.’

  ‘Or you saw. Some sense of her lingers there, does it not?’

  Tsevar met Konrad’s gaze then, but briefly, and with a shade of alarm. ‘That is absurd,’ he muttered.

  ‘Not to the spirit-sighted.’

  ‘I have no such sight,’ snapped Tsevar.

  The inspector interpolated, ‘Rest assured, sir, it is in no way a crime.’

  That prompted a gusty, irritated sigh. ‘Very well. Yes, I can sometimes get a sense of such things. Though I do not understand how it is that any part of Verinka lingers around this pipe.’

  ‘She is mostly liberated by now,’ Konrad said. ‘Only a trace or two left.’

  Tsevar blinked at him in what appeared to be genuine incomprehension. But he had overdone it, and Konrad had not missed the quick, sharp glance that preceded this display of ignorance.

  ‘I beg you would be straight with us, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘We are not here to accuse you of anything. We are here to find out who killed your sister.’

  Tsevar, remembering perhaps that he was devastated by his sister’s death, capitulated. He picked up the pipe and brandished it in the inspector’s direction. ‘Have you any knowledge of this kind of article?’

  ‘Pipes?’ said Alexander uncertainly.

  ‘No. Mourning jewellery. And other such objects.’

  Alexander, blinking, cast a sideways glance at Konrad.

  Who recalled, from some distant part of his memory, a snippet of an old story he’d never given much credence to. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Long ago, it’s said, it used to be the custom to keep some memento of a deceased loved one, as a remembrance. Necklaces, bracelets, pins, that kind of thing. Pipes or watches, if either the deceased or the mourner was a male. They were said to keep the loved one near — never truly gone, you can imagine the kind of sentiment.’ The scornful twist to Tsevar’s lips suggested he did not know what sentiment was. ‘Some nonsense about clear diamonds and ghosts—’

  ‘Except it is not nonsense, is it?’ Konrad said. ‘It is truth. That’s why you looked so shocked just now. Did you manufacture this to sell to the credible among your clients? A high-priced article for a grieving widow; a way to keep hold of some scant trace of her lost spouse. Only, it can work, to an extent. You realise that now.’

  ‘You suspected, though, didn’t you?’ said Alexander. ‘Or why include the diamond at all? It’s concealed. You could have left it out.’

  Tsevar looked from Konrad to Alexander and back, trapped and profoundly irritated by the fact. ‘I thought it an idiot’s dream,’ he snapped. ‘But people pay a lot for dreams. It’s a new line; we haven’t even launched it yet.’

  He wouldn’t be launching it. The Order would be obliged to put paid to the scheme. ‘Why do you think your sister was taking it to Mr. Balandin?’ Konrad asked.

  ‘Because the two of them have been thick as thieves for months,’ growled Tsevar. ‘And in that time, the damned fool has been constantly getting ahead of us, somehow. Buying up stock ahead of me. Luring my artists away from me. Undercutting my prices. Where was he getting his information, if not from my sister?’

  Alexander gave a slight cough. ‘You did say you and your sister were very close, sir.’

  For the first time, a note of genuine sadness crept into Tsevar’s voice. ‘We were, for most of our lives. Kristov changed all that. I don’t know how he did it, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Since he began courting her, she has been different. Puffed up, guarded. Coaxing and disdainful by turns. And there can now be no doubt that she was a traitor to me. I didn’t want to believe it.’

  ‘Clear motive for murder there,’ Alexander said, half apologetically. ‘Cannot help pointing it out.’

  Tsevar scowled. ‘I’d never have killed her.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t, sir, but nevertheless I’m obliged to ask: have you ever had any dealings with certain, ah, women’s facilities in the lower town?’

  ‘What?’ Tsevar looked at the inspector as though he had run mad. ‘Women’s— what sort of man do you take me for?’

  A possible murderer, thought Konrad, but Alexander merely smiled. ‘Never mind. Thank you for your
time.’

  ‘It could be him,’ said Konrad soon afterwards, when they had left — or been thrown out of — Tsevar’s office. ‘He had reason, and an opportunity, and Verinka strongly distrusted him. Have your men managed to wring anything out of the waiters yet?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. They are still denying all knowledge. It might not have been one of them slipping the weed into the wine, remember. Indeed it might not have been administered during those weekly lunches at all.’

  ‘When, then? She seems to have prepared her own food at home; there’s no sign of a cook in her employ. We found nothing in her house that might have been contaminated with widow weed. And as far as we’ve discovered, the only time she ate anywhere else was at that same club.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Alexander thoughtfully. ‘I am looking forward to your conversation with the mysterious Kristov, though. If he was a competitor of Tsevar’s, and cheating to boot, that explains the man’s distaste. I wonder why he was courting Verinka?’

  ‘If he was getting information out of her, that’s probably reason enough.’

  ‘Nothing sincere about it then, you think? Poor woman.’

  Konrad shrugged. ‘She seems to have been easy to corrupt, for all her former closeness to her brother. I do not know how much sympathy I shall feel for her.’

  ‘We only have Tsevar’s word for any of that, too,’ Alexander reminded him.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Konrad.’

  It was Tasha, climbing in through his study window, attended by a blast of cold air.

  Konrad, startled out of the reverie into which he’d fallen, sat up with a jerk. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Breaking and entering,’ said the little lamaeni, planting both feet upon his fine carpet and dusting snow off her dark jacket.

  ‘I can see that. May one ask why you found it necessary to enter that way, instead of via the front door?’

  ‘Gorev would’ve sent me away if I tried to come in that way.’

  ‘And why is that, pray?’

  ‘Because last time I was here I went into your kitchens and stole half of your cook’s fresh batch of pastries.’

  Tasha said this serenely, but with an impish twinkle lurking in her eye — the kind that begged to be taken up for it, and argued with, all her sauciest wit at the ready.

  ‘I hope your boots are clean,’ was all Konrad decided to reply. ‘Or my housekeeper will have your guts.’

  ‘Of course they aren’t clean. Where do you think I’ve come from?’

  ‘The filthiest spot you could find in the whole of the undercity.’

  ‘Correct. Don’t you want to know why I took the pastries?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘I was feeding the street children.’

  ‘How altruistic of you. I suppose it would be too much generosity if you’d had to pay for them yourself as well.’

  ‘Redistribution of wealth is important.’

  ‘No doubt. Do feel free to redistribute mine anytime you feel so inclined.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Tasha assured him.

  ‘Did you come here for a reason, besides the daily torment I’ve come to know and love from you?’

  Tasha grinned at that. ‘There was that. Also, I wanted to ask you a question.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be asleep in the middle of the afternoon, you know. Only old men doze off over their newspapers like that.’

  ‘I am an old man, and I wasn’t asleep. I was thinking.’

  ‘You can’t be more than, what, five-and-thirty? Six-and-thirty?’

  ‘I feel at least twice that. What was the question?’

  ‘Oh. I want to know where Verinka lived.’

  ‘Ask the inspector, then. He has all the details, and he’s responsible for you, spirits help him.’

  ‘I did. He refused to tell me.’

  Konrad raised a brow at that. ‘And why did he refuse to tell you?’

  ‘He said I was going to meddle.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I’m a police ward. I’m meant to meddle.’

  ‘Your immediate superior disagrees.’

  ‘What am I there for if I’m not to do any detecting? I need training.’

  ‘Is that what you want to be when you — ah — don’t precisely grow up? A detective?’

  ‘You seem to enjoy it.’

  ‘Do I? Appearances can be deceiving.’

  Tasha’s gaze sharpened. ‘So you don’t like it? Really, really?’

  Konrad shrugged, experiencing a moment’s irritation. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, actually.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can’t tell you.’

  ‘Right.’ Konrad got out of his chair, and retrieved a memorandum book from a drawer in his desk. ‘If I give you Verinka’s address, will you get out of my house?’

  ‘And your hair,’ Tasha said. ‘Promise faithfully.’

  ‘Your promises mean virtually nothing,’ Konrad said, scrawling Verinka’s address on the next blank page, and tearing it out. ‘Don’t go bothering the inspector,’ he recommended, handing it over to Tasha.

  ‘You mean don’t tell him you gave me this? I might, if it suited me.’ She glanced at the paper, folded it, and tucked it into her jacket.

  Konrad sighed. ‘You’re the worst person I know.’

  Tasha doffed her cap at him in thanks, and launched herself out of the window again. Konrad heard a muffled thud.

  ‘Still alive?’ he called.

  ‘You do realise what you just said?’ Tasha yelled back.

  Oops. Tasha hadn’t been alive in a while. ‘Right,’ he called, but there came no reply, and he received the impression that she was already gone.

  He wasted some little time trying to imagine what the wretch might be getting up to in Verinka’s neighbourhood, and what worried Alexander about it.

  Mischief, was the inevitable answer. But since Tasha could take care of herself better than anyone else he knew, he wouldn’t waste his time worrying.

  Nanda, though. He would waste his time worrying about Nanda, and gladly. And he needed to finish this case in order to find out how he could help her.

  His ruminations had resulted in one conclusion, if a vague one: the biggest questions remaining about the case of Verinka Tarasovna revolved around Kristov Balandin. They had gleaned some information about Verinka’s suitor, if not much. He was a competitor of her brother’s; he had some money, and liked to flash it around; he had some kind of interest in Verinka herself, possibly romantic but possibly only opportunistic; and, if Tsevar’s story proved true, he was a little short on moral fibre.

  Some of those questions could prove vital. If Tsevar’s story was true, Kristov was no candidate for the murder. If he was using Verinka to such excellent effect, he must have been making a lot of money out of her. Why would he kill her? Unless he had reason to think that relations between the siblings had deteriorated to the point where he might no longer be able to make use of her. But that still wasn’t motive for murder, especially not the kind conducted over several weeks.

  If he had a motive at all, Konrad couldn’t imagine what it might be. Tsevar still looked by far the likelier culprit. But Konrad had no evidence of Tsevar’s guilt, without which he could not act. Might Kristov have some light to shed on the story? Might he even have evidence of Tsevar’s misdemeanours to share?

  Konrad needed to find him. He could wait until tomorrow, and corner him at the club. But that meant wasting the rest of the afternoon, and the night, and most of the following morning, with nothing much to do and no particular leads to follow. He’d waited at home in hopes of word from the inspector: a confession from a bribed waiter, perhaps, or some new insight into the identity (and motive) of the woman who’d bought the widow weed.

  But nothing came, and Konrad grew more impatient. At last he abandoned his vigil. No sense in retracing the steps already trodden by the inspector’s men; they knew
their work. Konrad held out little hope of somehow succeeding where they had failed.

  No, instead he would find out where Kristov Balandin might be hiding. Alexander had already discovered his place of business, but when he and Konrad had gone there that morning he’d been reported absent. For the whole day, on business, sorry sirs, he will not be back until tomorrow. Or the day after.

  The serpents having confirmed that he really was not on the premises, Konrad and Alexander had been obliged to take a cursory look around and go away again. Until the morrow.

  Or not. Perhaps Konrad could find him. There was one advantage he did have over the police: he knew where the social elite spent their leisure time, or those who aspired to be admitted into their (supposedly) exalted ranks. Given Mr. Balandin’s habit of patronising the Larch Club, and of making a display with his wealth, Konrad guessed that he was not above a little social-climbing.

  In which case, he had an idea. There were not all that many gentlemen’s clubs in Ekamet, and most were very exclusive: memberships were given out only to those who met the club’s stringent requirements. But one could sometimes get around them. Not through bribery; oh no, that would be inappropriate. But if you could persuade an existing member to take you along as a guest, well then.

  Kristov Balandin had already proved himself adept at making the right kinds of friends, and charming the most useful people. Perhaps the kind of “business” he was conducting that afternoon was more of the same.

  Despite Konrad’s confidence, his tour of the better clubs proved fruitless. As did his subsequent exploration of the poorer grade. No one recognised the name of Kristov Balandin, or would admit to doing so. The man himself certainly was not to be found at any of them, ensconced at his ease by a blazing fire, or engaging in conversation with the club’s members.

  A waste of an afternoon, he thought bitterly as he abandoned the endeavour. He had missed dinner, unwilling to halt the search earlier for fear that the next establishment would prove to be the one he sought. At length, though, he ran out of options; and being by then chilled through to the bone and heartily bored, he permitted his coachman to drive him home. There was always the possibility that word from Alexander would await him there, containing just the breakthrough they needed.