The Necromancer's Faire
Page 4
Chapter 4
The Necromancer’s Search
Snooping wasn't much Sebastian Grimm's forte or desire, but he was certain that unless he contributed in the search for the Renaissance murderer, the possibility would be there that someone might be killed. And for that reason alone, he didn't much worry of imposing himself over the others at the fair.
As the detective was off conducting his investigation, the necromancer decided he would perform a bit of unsupervised fact-finding of his own. He started with the play that was to begin in approximately 15 minutes. An Ode To A King, in case you needed reminding.
Sebastian Grimm authorized himself to enter the make-up tent that housed the actors just a few meters away from the amphitheater.
“Hello?”
It was difficult to tell from the staff precisely who was supposed to act on stage, and who was acting off. They all wore the same colorful brand of clothes. There was however a young woman powdering her nose in front of a mirror, repeating the lines “Oh but most precociously my lord” over and over again, uttering it in a different voice each time. She wore a pink bodice wrapped tightly enough around her body to accentuate her breasts. She was white in color, though sported a gentle tan.
The necromancer hesitated to intrude, but “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
The girl turned around.
“Who are you?”
“I'm Sebastian Grimm. My partner and I are investigating the Renaissance murders.”
“Is that right? Well then where's your partner?”
“He's off asking other people questions,” or so the necromancer hoped. Although for whatever reason he could not shake away the image of John King sitting back, waiting for the killer to make his (or her) move.
Sebastian cleared his throat.
“You’re going to be in the upcoming play?” and he flashed his copy of the handbill for An Ode To A King.
“That’s right. I’m the princess.”
“Have you been with the fair long?”
“No. This year's my first.”
“You're not with the troupe?”
The girl snorted.
“Heavens no. In fact if were it up to me I wouldn't have anything to do with them. Those dirty people make me look bad. And Mr. Parsley told me that they were actors. They can't act. Those people could learn a thing or two about discourse and technique.”
“You were hired by Mr. Parsley then. I was led to believe that the play was written by someone from the troupe.”
“It is. And I suppose it's alright I guess. But Mr. Parsley wanted someone attractive to play the princess. And someone talented as well no doubt. A student of acting at Meldingford, for instance, as opposed to some mangy gypsy who's never seen the inside of a shower.”
“You replaced someone,” the necromancer hypothesized.
“Indeed I did. And the play is all-the-better for it. Believe me.”
“Maybe you can tell me who wrote the story.”
“It’s Tom Rendell. Bobby’s brother. They’re both in charge of that little group of theirs. You can find him around the back in that row of parked caravans. You can’t miss it. But try not to breathe the air too much. The stench of all that manual labor they do doesn’t rub off very easily.”
The necromancer couldn't exactly explain it, but he was overcome with a nagging suspicion that something foul was afoot about the play. Perhaps it was because of the circumstance behind it all.
According to Mr. Parsley, the hour-long play was a new event for the festival. An actress was replaced. The very troupe member who'd conceived of the play had little authority over who was selected for his roles. Sebastian sensed within an ebb of resentment. Perhaps somewhere in the details was a murderer hiding about.
The caravans were hard to miss, just like the princess said. He asked the first man he saw about Tom Rendell, not knowing that the man he had asked was, in fact, Tom Rendell.
“That’s you?”
“Who else would I be?” berated the short stout man. “I imagine you’re with that pesky detective.”
“So you’ve met my partner.”
“He’s a disrespectful slob who reeks of greed.”
This was all true of the necromancer’s colleague, right down to his core. In fact, Sebastian even had a few choice adjectives of his own that he could have added to the list. But perhaps that was for another day. Preferably one in which a life wasn’t on the verge of imminent death. Which, to a funeral director, seemed not to come by as often as he would have hoped.
“What can you tell me about that play you wrote? Ode To A King?”
“What do you want me to say? My boys are born theater performers. I wrote that play so that I could get their mind off of what we have to go through here each day with pigs like old man Parsley.”
Noble intentions from a foul mouth. How very fascinating.
“So what do you think of the princess?”
“I’ve never seen a more self-entitled brat in all my life. She thinks she deserves the world. I wrote that role for our Marie, who just turned 18 last week. I didn’t write this for some townie brat.”
“Well, I’m sorry that things didn’t work out as well as you’d hoped.”
“Save it. Your apologies won’t do me any good. Ah but if Patrick could only see us now, he’d be torn of what’s become of us.”
“Patrick?” asked Sebastian.
“He used to be one of us.”
“Used to be?”
Feeling that he had the time to spare, and a mood to entertain, Tom Rendell spilled the beans, so to speak, on everything that the troupe had told the detective. All from the details of the troupe’s previous life, their initial encounter with Mr. Parsley, and the eventual betrayal of Patrick Olsen.
Upon first mention of a potential ghost, Sebastian Grimm’s first reaction was that of utter disbelief.
“You don’t really mean a ghost do you?”
Tom blew a puff of air.
“I don’t know what to believe. My brother thinks it, and so does everyone else. It does put the murders in perspective, but I don’t know for sure what to make of it.”
“Do you blame your troupe for what happened to Patrick Olsen?”
“It was regrettable. But in truth we did what we had to do. We wouldn’t have survived anywhere else. Especially not in the winter. We had no choice. And that was that. We do what we can to survive. If that makes us bad people, then so be it.”
There was a moment’s pause before Tom spoke again.
“What about you? Can you find it in yourself to believe in magical ghost stories?”
In truth, the necromancer didn’t. As a funeral director and part time necromancer, he’d never heard of ghosts floundering about in real life. But then again, just because he hadn’t seen it before didn’t mean it wasn’t true. The necromancer himself had the capacity to perform feats that many would consider unbelievable. Perhaps as farfetched as it was, there was a chance that the story was true. Perhaps there really was a murderous ghost haunting the Renaissance Festival.
But on the topic of unbelievable things, “Would you happen to know where Patrick Olsen was buried?”