by Alexis Hall
Once we had manoeuvred the unfortunate Mr. Wangenheim into position, Ms. Haas extended one hand above his prostrate body and began walking around him in a series of ever-narrowing circles, incanting as she did an invocation in a language I recognised as ancient Khelish. When the circles had become small enough that she was at risk of stepping on him, she stopped and stood astride the gentleman. Then she knelt across his abdomen and tore open his shirt. Removing her monocle, she activated some mechanism I had not previously noticed, causing a wickedly sharp spike to protrude from the rim. This she drove deep into her palm, smearing the blood that welled up in response to this gesture across Mr. Wangenheim’s exposed chest. With one finger she traced an elaborate pattern that stretched from his throat to his solar plexus and then, with a sudden, spasmodic motion, Mr. Wangenheim awoke.
He made a sound that was like screaming, but drier and weaker. Ms. Haas covered his mouth to silence him.
“Less of that,” she said. “We don’t have long, and I need you to be at least partially coherent.”
This last request was perhaps a little optimistic. The perspectives of the dead are very different from those of the living. Dying is a disorientating experience and being summoned back into a cold, potentially decaying body is doubly so. It is for these reasons, as well as a certain ethical distaste, that testimony suborned under necromancy is not acceptable in courts.
Ms. Haas removed her hand, allowing Mr. Wangenheim to speak. He took a ragged breath, presumably out of habit, his glassy eyes shifting restlessly. “You must find Greta. You must tell her to flee. You must tell her the Contessa is a demon.”
“My good man,” returned Ms. Haas impatiently, “the Contessa has no interest in your silly little fiancée. She’s far too busy trying to murder someone else’s silly little fiancée. Tell me what you told her about Cora Beck.”
“She was angry. She said my information was wrong. That she wasn’t going to Aturvash. Said it was ruined. Said I had ruined it.”
Had I not been all too sensible of the dangers inherent in wandering a vampire’s castle alone, I would have left the room at this stage. Something about Mr. Wangenheim’s paralysed expression and thin, inflectionless voice struck me as profoundly disturbing.
“Said she’d boarded a train,” he went on. “Said she’d seen her. Gave me the numbers. Told me to tell her where they would go. How she could catch them.”
My companion spread her fingers before his face and then tightened them, as if drawing yarn from a spindle. His body twitched, his spine arching with a crack. “Which train?”
“The Austral Express. Athra, Szajnin, Sfantvar, Bagne Loup, Vedunia, Liohtberg.” His eyes locked straight ahead. “Athra, Szajnin, Sfantvar, Bagne Loup, Vedunia, Liohtberg. Athra, Szajnin, Sfantvar, Bagne Loup, Vedunia, Liohtberg.”
He continued to repeat the list of stations, each recitation more strangled than the last, until, to my immense relief, Ms. Haas spoke the words that broke the spell and, I hope, released Mr. Wangenheim’s spirit to its proper resting place.
“Well”—she drew an immaculate handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the blood from her hands—“you have to hand it to Eirene. It requires a certain wonderful nerve to go on the run by taking one’s lover on a luxury train through a sequence of the world’s most romantic and beautiful cities. I do rather miss her sometimes.”
Somewhat the worse for the night’s exertions, I lowered myself onto the now mercifully corpse-free sofa. “Is it likely the Contessa will be able to catch up with a locomotive?”
“Ordinarily no. Long-distance travel is not something for which vampires are well equipped. But the Austral Express takes a rather scenic route through the Hundred Kingdoms and has to take a substantial detour around the Blackcrest Mountains. If she follows a more direct path, through the Ensisa Pass, the Contessa should be able to head them off at Vedunia within the week.”
“But this is terrible!” I exclaimed. “We must do something.”
“Indeed. But, given that the Contessa has at least a couple of days’ head start, we shall have to fly if we are to have any chance of reaching the happy couple before they become very unhappy indeed. Fortunately, I know just the person to assist us.” She replaced her monocle and strode towards the door. “Quickly, Captain. We must return home and prepare to travel.”
As ever, I had many questions. But, as ever, Ms. Haas declined to answer any of them. We descended from the tower into the manor proper and out through the main doors, the grandfather clock shaking angrily at us as we passed. When we entered the grounds, we were greeted by a melancholy howling and, as we approached the gates, by a uniformed Myrmidon, lantern in one hand, truncheon in the other.
“Stop right there.”
I stopped right there, dropping my stick and raising my hands.
The young Myrmidon swept a beam of oily yellow light across me. “Who are you, and what’s your business here?”
“I’m afraid that’s quite complicated. My name is John Wyndham and this is my—” I turned to the space where Ms. Haas had been standing the last time I looked, only to discover I was quite alone. “That is. My name is John Wyndham and I came . . .”
I paused, weighing my options, and decided that, perhaps, on this occasion half the truth was superior to its entirety.
“. . . to visit the Contessa Ilona,” I finished.
The Myrmidon did not look entirely convinced. “And was it you let the gun off?”
I could not quite bring myself to lie to an officer of the law but, given the urgency of our mission, I permitted myself some attempt at dissembling. “What gun might you be referring to?”
“The one that was discharged in this area at approximately seven forty-five this evening. And which”—the beam of lamplight dipped towards my waist—“might very well be the same gun you are carrying in your jacket pocket.”
“Oh, that gun. Yes, you see, I was in the grounds and one of the Contessa’s dogs tried to eat me, so I was forced to shoot it.”
To say that the Myrmidon’s expression was sceptical at this point would be far from overstatement. “In the habit of shooting the pets of people we come to visit, are we, son?”
“Well, as it turned out, the Contessa wasn’t quite at home when I expected her to be. So I, um, looked for a way to let myself in. And then I got attacked by the dog and I really think you should know there’s a dead body and three vampires in there.”
And thus it was I found myself arrested for the second time in two days.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Second Augur Gabriel Lawson
“Sixth day, seventh month, third year, Twenty-first Council. Interview commencing nine twenty-three p.m., Second Augur Lawson conducting. The suspect was apprehended outside the Athran residence of the Contessa Ilona of Mircalla on suspicion of trespass, breaking and entering, murder, necromancy, and certain offences under the Mistreatment of Animals Act, Eighth Year, Twelfth Council.” Second Augur Lawson sighed deeply. “Please state your name for the record.”
I leaned towards the trumpet of the phonograph. “John Wyndham.”
“So what happened this time?”
“I hope you know,” I said, “that in ordinary circumstances I would cooperate fully with your investigation, but I am presently urgently needed on a skyship to Vedunia.”
Second Augur Lawson’s heavy gaze settled on me for an uncomfortably long time. “I’d say that you’d be amazed how many people I have in front of me suddenly needing to get on urgent flights to Vedunia but, honestly, they don’t normally try that one.”
“I assure you, I’m ‘trying’ nothing but the truth. If I do not get to Vedunia as soon as possible, an innocent woman will die.”
“This is one of Shaharazad Haas’s little games, isn’t it?”
“I’d hardly call a person’s life a little game, sir.”
“Well, that’s the dif
ference between you and your compatriot.” He leaned back, folding his arms. “Nevertheless, I’ve got a dead body on my hands and you at the scene. I’m not about to release my only witness just because he says he has something better to do. Especially not when he’s just told me that the moment he gets out of here, he’s bogging straight off to Nivale.”
I shifted awkwardly in my chair, my manacles clanking against the table as I moved. “You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with the death of poor Mr. Wangenheim.”
“I don’t believe I mentioned the deceased gentleman’s name.”
“I read it on a letter in his room.”
“The room you illegally entered?”
“It was only ever my intent to call upon the Contessa socially to discuss a matter of mutual interest.”
“And finding her not at home you decided, what?” His stern mouth softened very slightly, as though he were trying to repress a smile. “To sneak in the kitchen window?”
“Ah, no. The front door was open, which we took as invitation.”
“Very reasonable, if true. And on accessing the property through the open front door, what happened then?”
I blushed. “Um, as it happens, I did not personally enter through the front door. My companion went in alone, and I sought an alternate means of ingress through the catacombs beneath the chapel.”
“You went,” repeated the Second Augur, his voice as flat as I had ever heard it, “in through the catacombs beneath the chapel?”
“Yes.”
The Second Augur reached out and turned off the recording. “Mr. Wyndham, we’ve had this conversation before. You are not helping your defence.”
“I don’t understand how being honest can fail to help my defence.”
“Because,” he said, through gritted teeth, “you are making yourself look guilty.”
“Well, I did shoot the dog, and I did enter the house through the catacombs.”
“Did it at no point occur to you to not do either of those things?”
“With respect, not shooting the dog would have resulted in my death.”
He stood up, giving me ample opportunity to appreciate his stature. “Well, if you hadn’t been breaking into a vampire’s house in the first place, your life wouldn’t have been in danger.”
“The vampire in question is a suspect in one of Ms. Haas’s ongoing investigations.”
At this, Second Augur Lawson made several comments that I did not feel were appropriate for an Augur on duty. “Did I not tell you that if you carried on associating with the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, this sort of thing would keep happening? Admittedly, I didn’t think they would keep happening quite this quickly. But here we are.”
“I’m still not certain that my associations are any business of yours.”
He gave me a look that seemed equal parts exasperation and understanding. “They are when they make you break the law.”
“And,” I told him rather sharply, “I am perfectly willing to face the consequences of any lawbreaking I might have done. Now will you please turn your cylinder back on so that I can explain the circumstances in which I was arrested. And, afterwards, you may decide for yourself whether the public good is best served by continuing to detain me.”
He began pacing the confines of the interview room. “I didn’t become an Augur to lock up good people who are too pigheaded to either keep out of trouble or get out of trouble.”
I was oddly touched at his implied categorisation of me as a good person. And, I confess, I had always secretly wanted to be pigheaded. “That is very commendable, Second Augur Lawson.”
After a moment or two, he took his seat again and turned the recording back on. “Please continue, Mr. Wyndham. What happened after you entered the catacombs?”
“Well, before I entered the catacombs I shot the dog.”
The Second Augur covered his face with his hands.
“In, I should stress, self-defence.”
“Some might say the dog was only defending its mistress’s property from intruders.”
“Yes, but as it transpired, its mistress’s property was a murder scene.”
“Ah.” He looked up with an almost worryingly hopeful expression. “So you’re saying that you”—his voice was very slow and very clear—“entered the property because you believed that somebody within may have been in danger.”
I reflected on this. On the one hand, I’d had no inkling of Mr. Wangenheim’s existence before I found his bedroom. On the other, I had been searching for an entrance so I could go to the assistance of Ms. Haas, who, although very capable of defending herself, was technically in danger all the while she was there. “Yes,” I said carefully. “I did believe someone within was in danger.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wyndham. And, for the record, did you murder Mr. Wangenheim?”
“No, sir. I did not.”
“Do you have any idea who did?”
“While I was in the house, I encountered three gentlemen”—here I found myself blushing again, rather more deeply than before—“of wholly untrustworthy character. I believe it was they who were responsible.”
“And I’m sure,” continued the Second Augur, “that it goes without saying that they were also responsible for the necromantic ritual that had been performed upon the body.”
“Ah, well, no, actually—”
“As I said. I’m sure that goes without saying.”
This exchange presented me with a small ethical quandary. Second Augur Lawson’s assertion was faulty and it seemed improper of me not to correct it. However, I was sensible of the need to avoid falling into the hands of Augur Extraordinary Standfast, an eventuality which would surely preclude my leaving New Arcadia Yard in time to be of any help to Miss Viola or her fiancée. Further, while I would not normally want another to face the consequences of a crime they had not committed, the three vampiric gentlemen most certainly had murdered Mr. Wangenheim and had attempted to murder me. In the circumstances I, therefore, felt it defensible to allow the misconception to stand.
“I would not,” I offered, “wish to gainsay your professional judgement.”
“Very prudent, Mr. Wyndham.” Something in the Second Augur’s tone suggested that he was not, in fact, complimenting me on my prudence. He began tidying up his notes. “Well. As I see it, we don’t have enough evidence to keep you on a charge of murder. And, on the other charges, I believe the discovery of the body mitigates against them in”—and here he gave me a grim look—“this case only. But I sincerely hope that, in future, you will stay away from duels between sorcerers, parties to which you’re not invited, and houses full of corpses.”
“I certainly intend to.” But, even then, I was acutely aware of the distinction between intent and expectation.
“Thank you, Mr. Wyndham. Interview concluded at nine fifty-four p.m.” There was a click, as the Second Augur turned off the recorder.
“Does this mean,” I asked, “I am free to go?”
“As a dicky bird. Although”—he paused a moment, to fasten his eyes directly upon mine—“it might go some way towards showing your goodwill if you were to tell me what this extremely important life-or-death matter that’s taking you and Ms. Haas to Vedunia might be. I would also be interested to know what you were looking for at Mrs. Benamara’s party and in the house of the Contessa Ilona. And how the ——” His language, once again, became inappropriate. “. . . the two are connected.”
I presented my manacled hands in a none-too-subtle fashion. “I’m really not sure why you’re asking me about this.”
“Because,” he said, unlocking the handcuffs, the heat of his fingers lingering strangely against my wrists, “one: if you’re aware of a crime, you have a duty to report it. And two: I really don’t want to be investigating your murder six weeks from now.” He cleared his throat. “It’s a lot o
f paperwork.”
“I shall do my best not to increase your administrative workload.” This earned me a faint smile, which I also suspected was not entirely paperwork related. “As for duty; while I hold the Myrmidons in the highest regard, I also consider myself bound to respect the wishes of Ms. Haas’s client.”
“Of course you do.” The Second Augur gathered his notes and the recording and left the room.
As I collected my effects, before being escorted from the premises by uniformed officers, I reflected that my visit to New Arcadia Yard had, at least, gone far better than last time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Clouded Skipper
Following my release, I returned with haste to 221b Martyrs Walk. There, I found Ms. Haas’s monocle embedded in the front door, transfixing upon its hidden awl a note that read: Hippocrene. The Clouded Skipper. Pack for travel. Come armed. I removed both items and went inside, hoping I would not have to explain to Mrs. Hive the damage that Ms. Haas had done to the paintwork. I was not so fortunate. To be reprimanded by one’s landlady is never pleasant, but when the censure in question is delivered in an atonal buzzing from within a partially skeletonised cadaver, within which a teeming mass of insects swarms and moves with ungodly purpose, it can be quite disheartening. I apologised as profusely as was seemly but, as I found so often to be the case with landlords, landladies, and landpersons of more esoteric character, her displeasure at this most recent infraction called to mind a litany of other transgressions including, but not limited to, the hatstand, the stain on the hall carpet, the bullet holes in the skirting board, the destruction of the watercolour painting that was apparently a great favourite, the bloodstains in the guest bedroom, the fire damage to the rear staircase, and the incident involving the neighbour’s cat, the sanctified kris blade, and the spirit of pestilential calamity.