"Not at all, Fedders. Making a few changes?"
"It seems endless, inspector. Parts of the palace date back to the thirteenth century and I'm afraid the subsequent centuries haven't been kind.” He reached a blue glowing tarp field at the end of the hall. Reaching to his vest pocket, Fedders turned off the field, opened the almost black varnish-caked oaken door thus revealed, and leaned his upper body into the room beyond. “Detective Inspector Jaggers, milord."
I couldn't make out a response from within if there was one. The butler stood aside and held the door for me.
"Thank you, Fedders,” I said. I entered a study that was all that I imagined a bishop's study should be: book-lined walls, green shaded lights, ornately carved wooden beams, luxuriously stuffed chocolate brown and green leather chairs, and a ceiling mural of one bewhiskered fellow I assumed to be God bestowing upon another bewhiskered fellow who resembled Burt Reynolds a pair of tablets numbered from one to ten. None of this was computer generated or liquid crystal; all quite real. In the midst of this actual and studious piety was the rear-on view of a remarkably overweight fellow in green plaid shorts, purple satin short-sleeved shirt, red and green argyle socks, and spiked red and yellow golf shoes. As he teetered upon his artery-lined legs, he was apparently attempting to knock golf balls with a putter across his solid green carpet into a container that resembled a highball glass.
"A moment, inspector,” said the man. His head came up and he was wearing a strange garment upon it that appeared to be a white leather tam with a purple visor and a large purple pom-pom on top. “I finished up an appearance at that three day golf thing at Oak Meadow in Starcross this morning. Abominable weather."
He swung, he hit the ball, the ball rolled straight and true across the carpet just where physics sent it: wide of the glass and directly beneath a green leather chair studded with polished brass tacks. The Lord Bishop of Exeter raised a trembling hand gripping his putter above his head, made several gasping and choking noises that to my ear approximated certain Middle English nouns, verbs, and adjectives fighting for expression, then the hand came down. He put the putter handle-first into a large purple bag leaning against a built-in bookcase where the gleaming instrument joined his other implements of improbable relaxation.
"Not as young as I used to be,” said the bishop.
"It's going around, milord."
He wiped his fleshy red face with a purple towel. Lowering the towel, he regarded me for a moment, then tossed the towel in the general direction of his golf bag and seated himself in a brown leather chair next to a table that had a drink of some sort requiring a tiny pink umbrella up top and a polished silver tray beneath. He nodded toward another chair and I seated myself in it. He lifted his glass and asked, “Care for something to drink, inspector?"
"No. Thank you."
"Well, you are, aren't you?"
"Sorry, milord?"
"Young as you used to be. At least at some point. Artificial Beings Crimes Division, wot? Everyone in ABCD is a bio or mech, am I right? Never heard of anyone copying into anything older than his natural."
"ABCD is staffed by ABs—artificials. When I used the word I, milord, the reference was to my imprint rather than my suit."
"Suit? Suit?" His thick white eyebrows arched. “A suit is a jacket, man. Trousers, a waistcoat perhaps. God's truth, man, what you call a suit is a created body—what God in his arrogance once thought was his domain.” The bishop's eyebrows came together into a frown.
Little profit in bandying souls, minds, mortal remains, and afterlifes with someone who was an obvious bigot. He was also a bishop and presumably could quote me under the table regarding my bandying candidates. Putting temptation aside, I said, “I'm inquiring about an antique gas gun registered to your office well over a century ago. We've talked with your secretary and he seems unable to locate it."
"Gas gun? Gas gun? What rot. I own guns. Fowling pieces, wot? Never owned a ... gas gun, you say?"
"Yes sir."
"What's it for?"
"They were originally used by law enforcement in non-lethal riot control. You might say the one we're looking for now, though, was used as a fowling piece."
"Fowling piece, you say?” His eyebrows went up again as he pointed a finger at me. “Ah hah! You're talking about that dead pigeon bio on the telly. Ledge marshal chap."
"Yes, milord. He was killed by a gas gun shooting a flexible baton."
"Flex—a what?"
"A beanbag."
"Beanbag. Damned silliness if you ask me. Pigeons. Beanbags. If that chap'd stayed in his own skin, he'd still be alive, wot?” The bishop took another drink, placed the glass upon the tray, and faced me. “Jaggers, have you any idea how much it costs churches in this country to keep pigeon filth off sills and ledges? Have any idea at all how it's done?"
"Actually—"
"Cloned pigeon bios, can you believe? All over the sky: Bloody scientific freaks strutting about chasing off real pigeons. Call themselves the bloody Royal Air Force! Ruddy cheek of it. Takes a king's ransom just to keep filth off buildings. Billions we pay across the entire kingdom. You want to see your money grow, sir, sink a few thousand into that Pureledge."
"About—"
"You ever see ‘em fly, sir? The pigeon Air Force? See what they do with their wings when they're up in the sky? I pulled a bell rope or two in my time, sir. I know what they're up to."
"About the gas gun, milord."
"Gas gun? Oh.” He settled back in his chair, pursed his lips, and raised an eyebrow at me. “Murder weapon, you say?"
"Yes."
"Understand, inspector, my personal possessions are different than things belonging to the bishop's see. I don't own this furniture,” he raised a hand, “or any of these books. They all belong to the office.” He frowned again, looked at his knees, and looked again at me. “How old was this contraption?"
"It was manufactured in the twenty-first century. Your secretary said the last mention in your records is one hundred and forty years old."
"Rubbish. Don't own any guns that old. Wouldn't use them if I did. Unreliable. Something that old belongs in a museum, wot?” He placed his hands upon his knees, leaned forward, and stood. Turning, he went to the writing desk and pushed a button disguised in its surface. His face and hair achieved a bluish-white hue and I realized he was looking at the illuminated side of a virtual video screen. “There's that mention.” He studied the screen, his lips silently moving, then moved his fingers about on the desk's surface. “Let's see. There, inspector. Well. What do you make of that? The office owned a Defense Technology 37mm Multi-launcher with folding stock and revolver type motor driven magazine. Here's an image...” His eyebrows went up. “Formidable looking device. Fired beanbags, you say."
"Yes, milord."
"Six rounds in three seconds it says. Bloody hell. You could have a Glorious Twelfth shooting party with one of those things—open the shooting season proper.” He nodded once. “Let's see. Cathedral groundskeeper then purchased the weapon for pigeon control. Gun was never used.” He glanced at me. “Illegal to shoot pigeons then, I suppose."
"As it is now, milord."
"Silly regulation.” He looked back at his screen, muttered some numbers, and fingered his desktop. “Ah. There. I was right. A weapon of that make, model, description, and serial number is among the acquisitions of the Royal Diane Devon & Cornwall Force Museum. You know it? Fore Street next to St. Mary Arches?"
"I know it.” I got up to look at his screen and verify the bishop's statements. Indeed, the weapon in question resided at the Royal Diane Police Museum. I asked Dr. Koch if I could use his link.
"Feel free, inspector.” He nodded and returned to his chair and beverage.
Clerical error. The serial number of the gun belonging to the bishop's office had been entered incorrectly when the gun was donated to the law enforcement museum back when its location had been at Middlemoor at the Police College. Because of Parker's inquiries, the curato
r at the museum had rechecked the serial number and had made the necessary correction on their site. While I was there, I checked on the bishop's alibi. At the time when Darcy Flanagan was killed, the Bishop of Exeter was indeed in Starcross being entertained by approximately eighty witnesses at the venerable Oak Meadow Golf Club. The soiree had taken place after a blustery day of attempting unsuccessfully to put little white balls into little round holes for the benefit of notorious anti-AB life organization, Natural Pride. The person writing the article was Alicia Pelletier of Starcross, secretary of the local NP chapter.
"Lord Koch, are you a member of Natural Pride?"
"Natural Pride? Heavens, no,” he said from his chair. “Don't get me wrong, sir. It's a sound organization doing vital work.” He turned in his chair and looked at me. “A view unlikely to be shared by artificial beings I suppose.” He turned back, removed the peculiar hat, and placed it on the table next to his drink. “Too controversial, NP. Never do to join in my position. Eight percent of church members in the see are ABs. I have a responsibility.” He shook his head. “Human imprints on animals, sir. God never intended kangaroos to play the banjo, sir, nor apes to sing before the royal family."
The Parker reference peaked my interest. The bishop shook his head ruefully, noted his glass was empty, and was about to ring for his butler when the door opened and Fedders appeared with a fresh highball. “Bloody gorillas,” he muttered raising the fresh drink to his lips. He glanced back at me. “Conducting your current inquiry I understand."
"Yes, milord."
He turned back, muttering to himself. “How long until the future sees a bloody chipmunk as priest?"
I decided to risk a question. “Milord, how would you feel about killing an amdroid?"
"Hah! Me, sir? Kill one, sir? I'm a man of God, sir. How do you think I'd feel about murder?"
"You consider it murder?"
He looked around again. “My objection to amdroids, inspector, is that in copying into an animal suit, as you put it, I believe the soul is copied in as well. Moving the soul in and out of a body is man's ability, sir, but it is God's work. If the only imprint of an individual is in an amdroid, bio, or mech, killing that imprint moves that soul out of the body. Again, sir, I say that is God's work. When men move souls I call it murder. Dread the future, sir. I do.” He shook his head and looked down at the tiny pink umbrella in his fresh drink. “I do,” he repeated.
* * * *
That night at home eating dinner—Walter had prepared an excellent pasty—I mentioned to Val my visit with the bishop. “Dr. Koch seemed quite adamant that every time we save an imprint off a dying soul or copy into a mech we're somehow violating God's plan. I'm glad I never had to bother with all of that nonsense."
"You mean religion?"
"Yes. My father thought I should choose for myself. I looked around, experimented some, but in the end decided to leave it all be."
Val lowered the paw she had been licking as she sat on the table and beheld me with those dazzling aqua eyes. “Yet last Christmas Eve,” she said, “we went to Saint Peters to listen to Christmas carols."
I thought on that, remembering the young male soloist who had brought me to tears with his haunting interpretation of “I Wonder As I Wander.” Val had been on my lap.
"There wasn't a thought in my head that night,” I said to her. “I was filled with beautiful sounds. Tremendous choir there."
"I remember,” she purred as she walked over and sat by my shoulder, leaning against it.
"When that boy sang—you remember the one—when he sang that carol I didn't even hear or understand the words. For a moment I flashed on that terrible night those yobs came at me in London as I crossed Trafalgar Square. The knives, all that blood."
I glanced at Val and her eyes were closed. “When they found me and harvested my engrams I was all the way to Charing Cross Station. I don't remember getting there, but I do remember praying. It wasn't to some bearded gent in a long white nightshirt or even using a name. I asked whatever was out there to get me home to you. When I heard that boy sing, his beautiful voice reverberating from the walls of that ancient cathedral, I was filled with gratitude to still be alive, whatever suit I inhabited. How could that be wrong?"
"Harry,” she said, “it doesn't appear to have bothered the entity to whom you prayed.” She rubbed her head against my sleeve. “Nor the one to whom I prayed."
We sat like that for the twenty seconds it took for the telephone to ring. I got up, walked into the living room, and said “answer” to the tiny screen on the end table next to the couch. Val liked the screen phone because it was easy for her to ring up and talk with her friends. I didn't like it because any nit with wit enough to punch in our number got a free peek at me. That's why I usually used the old fashioned one in the kitchen. The screen came up and it was Shad. “Hello, old duck."
"Hey, Jaggs. Parker and I have been at the tower all this time trying to crack Lord Bishop Fauntleroy's alibi."
"Find a fissure?"
"Polished titanium. He was definitely at the golf club when Darcy Flanagan was murdered. Something else, though. Do you remember that site write-up on the banquet by one Alicia Pelletier?"
"I remember."
"Parker read the whole thing including the mention of those valued Devon Natural Pride members who, most regrettably, could not attend that day's festivities at Oak Meadow. Ready for two of those names?"
"Stun me, ducky."
"Sharissa Thule of Dawlish and Raymond Crowe of Exeter."
I stood there, stunned. Half of that duo shouldn't have been a surprise. Two out of three times, the person who finds the body is complicit in the killing. It was the second name, though, that was going to be a problem: Raymond Crowe, Chief Constable of Devon & Cornwall Constabulary. His name answered so many questions it almost outweighed the overwhelming problems.
"Jaggs? I thought that making Crowe our prime suspect would at least be worth a bugger or two. You should've heard what Matheson said." He held a wingtip in front of his bill. "I quite blushed."
"Send me a cruiser, Shad. I'll be right down."
"He said that, too. Oh, a minor hitch in the murder weapon. The FME is amending his report. It seems that the cause of death wasn't the beanbag."
"Oh?"
"That caused the broken bones and precipitated his nat in stasis to peg it, but doesn't explain how that one rib changed direction eighty degrees from the direction of impact and made it into Flanagan's heart."
"Shad, is it possible that Flanagan was conscious? That he knew his body in stasis was dead?"
"He was on continuous sync with his nat. It's possible."
I rang off and went to the hall to get my coat and hat. “Val,” I called. “I have to go out. There's been a possible break in the Flanagan case."
"What is it?” she asked as she came up to me. I reached for the knob.
"I haven't sorted it all out in my mind yet, but our killer might very well be Chief Constable Crowe himself."
"Oh, dear."
I nodded. “Yes. Oh dear, indeed."
The cruiser was waiting for me as I left the house. I climbed in, and the vehicle ascended into a clear night sky and turned east, sirens blaring, right-of-way signals interrupting nearby vehicles’ GPS controls, my own set of Christmas lights flashing green as the cruiser cut across Pennsylvania—St. Thomas to St. James—Heavitree Corridor. As the cruiser streaked toward the tower the pieces began falling into place: Parliament Street, the evening off for Shad and me, Parker catching the call, the pressure of the chief constable's office to resolve the case, the media there and waiting for Parker to drop it, the missing case file on the Romila Kumar bio disappearance. It wasn't enough to bring charges, though. Finding the rest of our case was going to be the night's likely assignment.
* * * *
Eight the next morning in the superintendent's office, dark circles and baggy eyes all around, including Detective Constable Fatima al-Fasi and Police Constable
Duke Milburn both of Exeter CID. They had been the two on call for ABCD requests and had brought in Sharissa Thule just before midnight. Detective Superintendent Matheson asked them to remain pending an additional arrest. Now the sun was up and hurtfully bright.
"I don't quite understand why we still need to be here, superintendent,” DC al-Fasi said to Matheson. She was wearing an olive pantsuit with black turtleneck. The first impression she gave was of being young and petit—too much of both for police work. She had bobbed black hair, soft dark eyes, and no obvious makeup. It took awhile to notice the scars and calluses on her hands. She was one of those who worked out by smashing bricks and oak boards. “You have our full cooperation in making arrests,” she said. “Simply tell us who you want nicked, hand us the warrant, and we'll bring him in.” Milburn nodded, yawned, and nodded again. Middle twenties, brown eyes, buzzed brown hair, square-jawed, and muscular. He was in the usual Exeter blue except instead of a helmet, his headgear consisted of a blue watch cap.
Matheson was seated behind his desk. He looked up at his liquid crystal ceiling. Images of little white clouds moved soundlessly across a deep blue sky. Shad and I were in chairs before the superintendent's desk, al-Fasi and Milburn seated to our left. Parker occupied his usual seat in the WC. Matheson brought his gaze down until he was looking at DC al-Fasi. “It has taken us a while to collect enough evidence to obtain an arrest warrant, detective.” Milburn was steadily sliding down in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, the back of his head in search of rest.
"I apologize, sir,” said DC al-Fasi reaching out a hand to awaken her constable.
"Never mind, detective. He'll awaken soon enough.” He looked at her. “We have one last task before sending you all out to make this arrest. It will be necessary for you understand the case we've prepared against this individual."
"Why, sir?"
"Unless you understand the evidence, you may be reluctant to carry out the arrest."
She looked a bit impatient. “Reluctant or not, superintendent, we'll do our job,” she replied off-handedly as she reached out and jabbed Milburn, barely getting his eyelids to crack open. “Who is the bloke?” she asked in the midst of a barely stifled yawn of her own.
Analog SFF, November 2007 Page 7