by Jack Conner
“What is that?” he asked warily.
“Oh, this!” Her eyes flashed, and her grin grew wider. “Ambrose said I could give it to you! Oh, sir, this is so wonderful! I can’t tell you how wonderful this is, how happy it makes me -- ”
“Nancy. What is it?”
She nodded emphatically, curls bouncing, and handed him the letter. Before he could read it, she blurted, “It’s the Queen’s Ball! She’s invited you! Oh, isn’t it divine, sir? I was so worried you wouldn’t come back in time. It’s the night after tomorrow!”
He stared at the letter, uncomprehending. Sure enough, it was a formal invitation from Queen Fontaine -- even signed by Her Majesty herself -- to her annual birthday ball at the Palace. But that made no sense.
“What . . . why . . .?” he asked.
“Oh, you should know better than that, sir! If you’ll pardon me for saying! Your grandmother and the Queen were fast friends from childhood, you know that. The Queen looked up to Lady Margaret like an elder sister. And after her passing the Queen was always very fond of your lady mother. I believe there was even talk of her being godmother. Of course, that was before the sickness, before your father . . .”
He didn’t need to be reminded of the bitter history, of how his father, driven into the bottle by the cancer that killed Lynch’s mother Sarabelle, had let the family fortune dissipate and had locked himself up in the seclusion of his study, finally drinking himself to death mere weeks before Lynch’s own fevered return from the war. Lynch had not even known his father had passed until his fever had vanished. It had been during this same period that he had also found out about Eliza. Dark days indeed.
“The Queen must have heard about my . . . injury,” Lynch said, raising his hook. It looked very heavy, and it gleamed, as he’d washed it of blood and viscera. “She’s inviting me out of pity.”
Nancy bit her lip, then rallied. “It will be wonderful, sir! Just like old times! Your family and the Royal Family, together, mingling . . . Who knows, you could meet some captain of industry and . . .”
He snorted. “What? Find a position? Work?”
An indignant look crossed her face. “And is there anything so wrong in that?”
“Nancy -- ”
“There is no time to waste. Shall I RSVP for you?” Her tone brooked no refusal.
“No.”
She stared at him as if he were mad, or perhaps some strange species of toxic amphibian just discovered in the Amazon. “But sir . . .!”
He handed her the letter. “I have something to attend to. Get Detective Brown of the 32nd Precinct on the phone for me.”
She opened and closed her mouth, speechless, her face as red as a beet, then stormed away. He wasn’t sure if she would ring up the detective for him or not, but minutes later he had the man himself on the tellie.
“Did you get it all?”
“Yes,” Detective Brown said. “But I’m not sure I have time . . . ”
“Make time. It’s important. Consider it me calling in a favor.”
There came a harsh laugh from the other end of the line that threatened to devolve into a hacking cough. “I think you exhausted your favors long ago, Lynch.”
“Then I’ll owe you one.”
“You owe me plenty.” There came a weary sigh. “But very well. It will take me some time, a few hours, I have more pressing matters to attend to. How about you meet me for lunch at Gaverty’s Square? Southwest corner. You’re buying.”
Pleased, Lynch relocated to the den and poured himself a thick finger of bourbon. It was never too early in the day to celebrate.
***
The great black clock tower known as Henry’s Needle (among other, more colorful expressions) jutted from the center of the park right in the dead center of Gaverty Square. It was a huge, baroque monstrosity of a clock tower constructed during the age of the Inquisition and quite ghastly to behold. Each of the twelve hours depicted a different sin, typically of the sexual variety, and an accompanying punishment. At the noon position, two lovers, presumably adulterers, writhed in passion while a demon heated a furnace below. At the three o’clock position, one man thrust into another while a horned devil prepared to skewer them both on a lance. Lynch had always been intrigued by the sexual deeds performed, almost as if the sculptor were giving the viewer suggestions, just as much as he had respected, in a professional capacity, the hideous ways in which those depicted were put to death. Nevertheless, it was overly ornate and altogether dreadful, and Lynch had long wished the tower torn down.
He and Det. Brown sat near the foot of the Needle, feeding pigeons the leftovers of their lunches. Lynch had been able to buy him off with a clam chowder and a stick of toasted bread, and Lynch had enjoyed a similar meal as they strolled through the park enjoying the autumn air. Many of the trees still bore leaves but enough had shed them to provide a constant flurry of red and gold plumage while plenty more stately, fully leafed specimens remained to showcase the beauty of the park.
Lynch and Brown fed what remained of their bread to the pigeons while Henry’s Needle boomed the noon hour. Alarmed by the noise, the horde of pigeons swarmed in a fury and Det. Brown cursed them.
“Damned birds wouldn’t know a cock from a rock,” the detective added, tossing the last piece of bread.
“Likely,” Lynch agreed, and lit himself a cigarette.
Brown eyed him. “That’s your third cigarette of the hour, Lynchmort. You are a man of appetites, aren’t you? Unwholesome, most of them, but at least you have some passion. Unlike my son, for example -- Jason just got a job as a bank teller, did I tell you that?” When Lynch shook his head, Brown waxed on, and Lynch humored him until the detective stopped and snorted. He was a barrel-chested fellow with a drooping, gray walrus mustache and no hair at all save for the sides of his head. He wore a suit and tie instead of a uniform. “I suppose this bores you,” he said.
“Not at all. You were saying . . . banking . . .”
Brown stared at him, then sighed. “One would think you’d show an interest. You did save the boy’s life.”
Lynch shrugged. “It was war.”
“According to him, you went above and beyond the call of duty.”
Lynch grinned nastily. You might say that. The night he’d saved young Jason’s life he had taken the lad out drinking and whoring. Jason had been so sick he had not been able to get out of bed the next day and an injection had been necessary to relieve him of his other affliction. But he had not complained.
“Perhaps,” was all Lynch would say.
“Well. It’s the reason I’m here. Again, I’m sorry about what happened, but it is entirely your fault.”
Lynch ground his teeth. “I only wanted -- ”
“What? To die in the ghetto? Well, we would have let you, I suppose, but you had to go and get caught in that raid on the whorehouse.” He shook his head. “You’re lucky we didn’t press charges. The amount of drugs you were carrying alone . . . not to mention the unmarked firearm, the woman, the assault of two officers . . . If you hadn’t saved Jason . . .”
“Did you get it?”
Brown studied him in silence, then looked away. Trees swayed gently in the wind, and a flutter of red-gold leaves shivered down.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I got it. Please, will you not tell me what this is about?”
“I would, but police are involved. Dirty cops, I hate to say. Were you to investigate, things would get nasty, and not in a productive way.”
Brown’s eyebrows converged, and it seemed as if he were about to protest. He thought better of it.
“Very well,” he said. He dug out a notebook, rifled through it. “The license plate of the car you gave me belongs to Lars Gunnerson. 5408 Hillcrest Lane. I did some checking, and it seems this Gunnerson bloke died last year. His sister lives there now -- a widow, I believe, of some quality. It is an old family.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Are you sure the car wasn’t stolen?”
“If it was, it wasn’t reported, and that wouldn’t make sense, would it, for a limousine’s theft to go unreported?”
Lynch made a note of the address, frowning. “No,” he muttered. “It wouldn’t make sense at all. And you haven’t heard of this fellow, the artist bloke? Possibly one of the Gunnersons.”
“No. Unlike you, I don’t keep up with the characters that frequent the Blight, of good blood or not. This is about the murders there, isn’t it? Yes, I know of them. Death would be the only thing to get your interest.”
“Murders, Detective?”
“Don’t be coy. But here’s something you might not know. They’re going on all over the city.”
“Truly?”
“So you admit you’re looking into them.”
“Answer the question.”
“They’re all over, Lynchmort -- in every poor district of Gaston. I can’t prove it, of course. Hell, most of the time there’s not even bodies. We’ve only heard the rumor of the deaths and . . . mutilations. That’s why I’m helping you. Not because you saved my son’s life, not because you’ll owe me, although you will. Something big is going on. And I fear you’re right. Some of my own brothers must be involved. It’s just possible -- not probable, mind you -- but just conceivable you could be the only one able to crack this thing.”
***
Mansions brooded behind ivy-covered walls. Lynch studied them as the cab carried him into a neighborhood several kilometers north of the Square.
Once the James family had had various social contacts here and attended balls and functions. He vaguely remembered attending several as a child and then less and less as a teenager, after his mother’s long illness and death. It was an area of thick oaks and thick walls, of secrets and ivy. And power. Great power. The wealth of those that lived here controlled much of Casveigh.
Cold wind blew as he took up station under a copse of trees, watching the front gate of 5408 Hillcrest. He had dressed well if not warmly, hoping the residents of the neighborhood would not call the police on someone who appeared to belong. He relocated every hour or so.
In mid-afternoon, a van pulled into the gateway of the Gunnerson villa. Two men in dark glasses occupied the cab. It left half an hour later, with only the driver visible. What did that mean? Was it dropping off personnel, or perhaps equipment? No other vans came or went. Shortly after dark, one small car of English make arrived, and not long after that two departed. Lynch took this to mean that some sort of night shift had begun, the night shift being smaller than the day. This encouraged him to think his decision to wait for nightfall had been well-founded.
When it was fully dark, he approached the gateway and pressed the intercom button. All the newer mansions had them. When no one answered, he pressed it again. Finally static crackled and a man’s voice said, “How may we help you?”
Lynch cleared his throat. “I have an appointment with the lady.”
“No. You do not.” The voice was flat, uncompromising. “Go away.” There was a click, then silence.
Lynch pressed the button again, then again.
The same voice, now irritated: “Yes?”
“I really must see Mrs. Everly.” Everly was the widow’s married name.
“And who are you?”
“I am Lynchmort James. An old family acquaintance.”
“The Jameses have not been seen in these parts for some time, sir, and you have no appointment, and there is no opening in Mrs. Everly’s calendar. Good day.” Click.
Lynch pressed the button. Ring, ring. No answer. He pressed it again -- and again -- taking some delight in it. At last he noticed a stirring in the darkness before him. Hillcrest was lit by electric lights that had come on automatically at the onset of dusk and so Lynch stood fully illuminated while the property beyond the high wrought-iron gateway lay mostly in darkness, save for vaguely rearing trees and a winding asphalt driveway -- and now a figure moving down it, brisk and impatient, shoulders squared.
The figure reached the gateway and glared at Lynch through the bars. He was a man in his middle twenties and wore a uniform that must be that of a private security company, so dark it was almost black, with high black boots and a flat, pointed cap. It all made Lynch think of him as some sort of trooper. At any rate, he looked as if he seen action and was looking forward to seeing more, preferably with Lynch at the receiving end.
“Be off with you,” he said.
“Tsk, tsk,” Lynch said. “So impatient. The youth of today. No, I rather think I’ll stay. I have urgent business with the lady.”
The trooper did not look displeased at this. Indeed, this seemed to be the very excuse he had been looking for. He pressed a button on the wall beside the gate, there came a click, and the gate swung open smoothly. With something of a sneer on his face, the trooper stepped through the entrance. He carried a pistol on one hip and held a police truncheon in his right hand, which he slapped against his open left palm as he advanced.
“I did give you fair -- ”
Lynch knocked the truncheon aside and kicked him in the crotch. When the man doubled over, Lynch crashed his open palm into the man’s nose, flattening it. Bone crunched. Blood spurted. Lynch wiped it off on the man’s cap as he wavered, then toppled.
Cursing insensibly, the man writhed on the ground. Lynch casually bent over, removed his truncheon, then sapped him over the head with it. The man stilled. Lynch smiled and helped himself to the gun. He had left his .22 at home in case multiple guards had come at once to search him.
Looking both ways, he dragged the guard through the opening, deposited him in some bushes and pushed the gate so that it appeared to be closed but could be opened with a pull. He shoved the pistol, a Smith and Wesson .44, into the waistband at the narrow of his back and set off, up the winding driveway toward the gabled villa in its own little private forest. Needle-like pines and grand, twisting oaks loomed over him. Clouds obscured the night sky. Despite the chill, Lynch did not shiver as he neared the villa. It was a brick monstrosity, solid and castle-like. Great windows adorned its front. Lynch imagined the interior flooded with light, then imagined how much smashing one of those huge windows would cost the owners, and smiled.
A guard stood to one side of the high oak door just past a short bridge that spanned an ornamental moat. Colorful fish swam in the water between encroaching water lilies.
The guard stiffened at Lynch’s approach. “Who are you? Where’s Mathews?”
“Mathews let me in, then decided to take a walk,” Lynch said as he crossed the bridge.
The guard saw the truncheon. Reached for his gun. Lynch flung the truncheon at the guard’s head.
The guard reeled backward and hit the door, fingers still scrabbling at his pistol. Lynch reached him and crashed his fist into the side of the man’s face. The trooper slumped against the wall. Wincing at the pain in his knuckles, wishing that he had two fists to mutilate, Lynch rifled through the guard’s pouches, found a key -- good; Mathews had not had one and Lynch had begun to worry that he’d have to smash a window after all -- and let himself in. Doubtless there were other guards, either inside or out, perhaps occupying a guardhouse that would empty as soon as an alarm sounded. Lynch had to be quick.
A tall man dressed as a manservant passed through the high doorway that led into one of the drawing rooms, obviously alerted at the noise of the front door opening. His eyes widened as he saw Lynch. His mouth opened --
Lynch brought the truncheon down on the man’s head. It had almost certainly been this man who had refused him entry and sent Mathews to force him away, brutally if necessary. Lynch caught the manservant as he fell, then lowered him onto a couch in the drawing room.
Lynch moved on. The downstairs was mostly dark, but lights flickered up ahead. He heard a few noises, clinking and clattering that he judged to be kitchen sounds, and he wondered if he had interrupted his hostess at dinner.
A woman say, “Excellent, Agatha, thank you,” as he rounded a corner to see a woman that c
ould only be Mrs. Lydia Everly sitting in a cozy tea room enjoying a steaming cup while an aged, overweight serving woman was just leaving. It was a smallish room filled with ornate figurines and facing broad, covered windows.
The table the woman sat at looked antique, but Mrs. Everly herself did not. Perhaps her husband had died young, or married young, for she could not yet be thirty, and her honey-blond hair was twisted into a tight bun behind her delicate neck. Prim and petite, with flashing eyes, she jumped to her feet at Lynch’s appearance, and her muted squeal was enough to raise shivers down his spine. He thought Agatha might turn back, but she must have been distracted by kitchen noises.
“Good evening,” Lynch said, bowing. “Pardon me for intruding. Your man assured me you would see an old family friend.”
“I -- Gilbert -- no -- ”
He was still holding the truncheon, and she stared at it. He sat it down on the table, pulled out a chair and sat himself down.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “One never knows who one is going to run into these days.”
She opened and closed her mouth. “I -- ”
“Don’t worry. I of course have no intention of using it on you.” He laughed to show how silly this was. She did not look reassured. “I just have a few questions about your brother.”
She blinked, swallowed, then straightened her simple green dress. It was obviously not a dress she would have worn out, and by her pale complexion Lynch doubted she went out much in any case. Still in mourning?
“My brother?” she said. “He is dead.”
“Ah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He noticed a collection of fancifully-wrought tea cups on a nearby cabinet. He rose, collected one, and poured himself some tea from the pot. He brought the delicate cup to his nose, sniffed its contents. “Delicious. From South Africa, if I’m not mistaken. Plucked in summer.”
As if making up her mind about something, she sat herself down and called out, “Agatha!”
Lynch braced himself, but the large woman did not cry out as she entered. She did start at seeing Lynch, and blink, but she merely nodded her head as her mistress asked for scones.