by Adam Drake
A fat little man jumped out of the passenger's side. He was bald, save for a pathetic wisp of a comb-over, and had a razor thin line of a mustache that edged his upper lip. Looking about with beady eyes he settled on me and scowled.
As the fat man marched over to us another man, this one tall and thin, emerged from the driver's side and hurried to catch up with his shorter companion.
“What is going on here?” the little fat man said.
“Oh, Sigwald,” I said with maudlin tones. “Always a pleasure.”
“That is Mayor Archambault to you, Mayra,” Sigwald said. “What are you doing here?” He looked to Fairfax. “Why is she here? She is no longer a part of the force.”
“She is here as a consultant,” Fairfax said evenly. “At the Chief Constable's express invitation.”
Around us the other constables watched but shrewdly kept a distance.
“Oh, that is wonderful isn't it?” Sigwald nearly spat. He looked at me. “Don't you think this case would be better suited in the hands of active duty investigators?”
“I wanted to see for myself -”, I said but he interrupted.
“Wanted to see what? How a murder investigation is properly conducted?” He glared at Fairfax. “Will you be charging admission next? Hmm? Let the local children have a look at the body for a copper piece?”
“Miss Beeweather has the best case clearance rate in the history of the -”, Fairfax said but Sigwald wouldn't let him finish.
“Unprofessional is what it is!” Sigwald said.
“Most unprofessional,” parroted the tall skinny man with a hook nose hovering behind Sigwald. He had an unseemly birthmark under his left eye. It was Davlon Blythe, the mayor's assistant and perpetual sycophant.
“And she is retired! Am I correct? She should not be here at all. In any capacity,” Sigwald said.
“That is for the Chief Constable to decide,” Fairfax said.
Sigwald barked a laugh. “The Chief Constable, eh? Well, we'll see what he thinks once I bring this to the Town Council's attention. That might clear his head of any notion of bringing Mayra into an investigation. And her little... circus.”
The last was said with a hateful glance at my satchel.
Neither Fairfax nor I said anything in response. There was no point. It would only encourage Sigwald to make more of a spectacle.
When Sigwald realized we wouldn't cater to his tantrum he whirled around and pointed at the nearest constable. “You, there! Take me to this poor fellow's body. I want to see for myself.”
The unfortunate constable looked to Fairfax, who begrudged a nod.
We watched as Sigwald disappeared over the river embankment with his assistant and a cluster of frightened constables in his wake.
“What an unpleasant little man,” I said.
Fairfax snorted and said, “Well, you did have two of his business partners thrown in prison for a good long time.”
I placed a hand on the knitting bag within the satchel and smiled at Fairfax. “Oh, yes. There was that. I had almost forgotten.”
“He hasn't,” Fairfax said.
Nor would he ever. I thought about Sigwald and the terror he induced in everyone around him. The little man flared up my temper good and hot. Though putting his partners away had been a highlight of my career there had been nothing to directly link Sigwald to their crimes. Yet even the stink of corruption didn't put a dent in Sigwald's campaign to get reelected as Mayor.
Still, I found I enjoyed the thought of making Sigwald annoyed. Maybe I would like to make him even more annoyed.
“Shall I take you home now, miss?” Fairfax said, motioning toward his buggy.
“No,” I said. “That won't be necessary.”
Fairfax looked at me in surprise.
“Let us have a gander at Oswall's desk,” I said with a grin.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Constabulary looked the same as when I last visited. Not that I expected any great change. The building had been in use by the Protection Services for at least a century. Perhaps I feared the neglect of the Town Council toward the department had caused the place to collapse out of sheer ambivalence. I was relieved to see it had not.
We pulled around the back and onto a gated lot. There were only two other buggies parked there.
“Everyone is on scene or doing their patrols,” Fairfax said as he parked nearest to the building's rear door.
“Of course,” I said. I felt for Fairfax. He was a true sworn protector and always made excuses when something lacking of Protection Services became obvious.
No doubt he made constant excuses.
I exited the buggy, satchel clutched close to my side and looked at the place. Old and perfunctory. Like me. I smiled at my own dull humor.
Fairfax noticed and arched a questioning brow as he opened the Constabulary's back door. “Care to share the joke?”
A shook my head. “No, Fairfax. Just a bit of gas.” This time I chuckled and feared Fairfax thought I'd lost my mind.
Inside, the tiled floor gleamed brightly, reflecting the sunlight which passed through huge bay windows.
I squinted, surprised. “This is new,” I said.
“Chief Constable fought hard for it to get done but the Council refused to approve any funds. In the end, the Chief called on a few favors and finished it a few weeks ago.”
I could hear a mix of pride and frustration in his voice. I said no more.
The Sergeant Constable stood at a counter in front of the wide open doorway which led into the main room of the Constabulary. His job was to field queries which came through and direct them accordingly.
He beamed once he spotted me.
“Detective Beeweather! You are a welcome sight. How have you been if I may enquire?”
“Still alive, Sergeant Maginhart. But please, no Detective, just Miss Beeweather,” I said and felt a flush across my cheeks. Gannon Maginhart was one of the longest serving constables in the service. And he was quite handsome, too.
Gannon grinned. “Of course. Miss it is.” I took pleasure in noticing he did not glance at my satchel. Either he didn't care or made an effort show it. Regardless, I appreciated the gesture.
Gannon held a pen over the large log book in front of him. “Should I write you down as Acting Detective, then?”
Fairfax answered for me. “Please put her as a consultant, will you Maginhart?” He knew another title might cause a dust up with a review board.
“Very well,” Sergeant Maginhart said and made a scribble on the thick parchment.
I spotted a tin of biscuits on Maginhart's desk. “May I?” I asked.
“Please, help yourself.”
I snatched up a biscuit and made a point of giving Fairfax a smug look while I chewed it down.
“Chief back, yet?” Fairfax asked, trying to ignore me.
“No. He went back to the scene,” Maginhart said and a sad expression crossed his handsome face.
“Did Oswall make any official log entries in the last few days?” I asked.
Maginhart shook his head. “I already checked. Nothing for over three months, and that time was to log a sick day. To be honest, I think it was to recover from a hangover.”
I frowned. “Okay, thank you.”
We passed through into the inner sanctum. As I looked around I was hit with a wave of memories.
The huge room, or the 'kennel', as the constables liked to refer to it, was lined with large windows. Twelve desks, in three rows, made up most of the decorum. Cabinets, filled with case files and paperwork, took up every available space. Books and file folders were piled everywhere, some threatening to spill over at the slightest touch. Several doorways were at the back leading to a small kitchen area, and the Chief Constable's office. A door to the armory was closed and locked.
Rock lights, now dark, hung over each desk from the high ceiling. More rock lights protruded at intervals along the wall.
The place smelled of must and paper and old overcoats. I
often thought of the Constabulary as a lair for justice. Cases were launched from here and suspects pursued.
I worked here many years. Often spending more time under these rock lights than the ones in my own house.
As much as I did not want to admit it this had been my home for a very long time.
I must have been standing in a daze before realizing Fairfax was speaking to me.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I smiled and blinked away the start of a tear. “Yes. Yes, of course.” I cleared my throat. “Is he still at the same desk?”
“Yes, last one on the right.”
We walked to it and I glanced at each desk. Case files, photographs, paper, mugs half filled with morning tea. Once the call came in that Radley had been found everyone left in a hurry.
Oswall's desk looked different than the rest. It was very clean, devoid of any clutter. Several dip pens in a small cup, a fat little ink bottle, several reference books lined up neat on one corner, and a small hunched rock light. A wide ink blotter took up most of the desk space and tucked within its edge folder were two pieces of paper.
I looked around in mild surprise. “Where are his case files? They should be here.” Each constable had a stack of active case files on their desk. Oswall, as the Constabulary's only active detective, was assigned the high-ticket items; high profile robberies and murders.
Fairfax thought a moment and said, “The Chief must have been looking at them. I'll see.” He vanished into the Chief's office.
I picked up one of the papers stuck in the blotter. I recognized Oswall's loopy scrawl across one side of it. 'Hubertus – useless'. The other side was a large question mark.
The name Hubertus derived from the north-eastern region but was too common to pin down to one individual.
I took the other piece of paper and discovered it to be a business card. Rousset's Tomes & Books of Rarity, Misael Rousset Owner & Proprietor. The address was on a street off Stage Court, near the center of town. On the back of the card in Oswall's writing was a name, underlined: Elicia Ipthorn.
Fairfax emerged from the Chief's office with a stack of folders. “Here they are,” he said as he set them down on the desk.
I counted them. Fourteen. “This was his active case load?” I asked, a little perplexed. That was an absurd amount to be given to a single detective. During my tenure there would be half as much, at most.
Fairfax shrugged. “Lots of crime recently, and not enough manpower.”
I sighed and regarded the pile. “Let's have a quick check through these and see what stands out.” We split them between us, flipping through each. We stood while reading. Neither one of us wanted to sit in Oswall's chair. It didn't feel proper.
As we read, constables trickled into the room. All either offered a warm greeting or gave a polite nod. Aware of our assignment they left us to our task.
After three quarters of an hour we finished. Oswall's case load composed of four murder cases, six armed robberies and four burglaries of note. Nothing jumped out to either of us as something that would result in Oswall being turned to stone.
“Well,” Fairfax said, looking a tad overwhelmed. “This is going to take considerable time.”
“That is the conundrum, isn't it?” I said. “At first glance, there is nothing here that tells us that investigating any of these cases got him killed. It could be someone from an older case, from years ago. Or it might be someone who isn't even related to any case, whatsoever. An old enemy from his past, perhaps?”
I sighed and Fairfax chewed at his bottom lip in thought.
On a hunch I glanced inside my satchel. The knitting bag's brass clasp gleamed at me.
“I think we may get a lead,” I said.
“We might?” Fairfax asked.
I grabbed the folders and fanned them across the tiled floor in two rows. Then I placed the satchel on Oswall's chair and opened it wide enough to expose the knitting bag.
Fairfax took a step back.
I chuckled. “You've seen me do this many times before, Fairfax. No need to worry.”
“Yes, well, it's something that one never quite gets used to, eh?”
“True”, I said, and touched the clasp with a finger.
The knitting bag shook and yawned open. After a few moments the head of a cat emerged. It was silver this time, the same color as the coins in my purse. With multicolored eyes, it regarded me.
I bent over and pointed at the files on the floor. “Which folder will lead to Oswall's killer.”
The cat did not move nor did it blink. It continued to stare at me with multicolored eyes.
After waiting a few moments I tried again. Sometimes I needed to be more specific.
“Is there a case here that may lead to Detective Radley Oswall's attacker?”
To my relief the silver cat blinked and turned to look at the folders. Then it leapt out of the bag and gracefully landed on the floor. Again, this cat was the same breed as the others, fluffy with a wide tail.
It padded straight to one of the folders, turned around to face me, and sat on it.
“It appears we have a lead after all,” Fairfax said with a slight smile.
“Indeed,” I said.
The silver cat stood and walked back to the chair. It jumped into the knitting bag and vanished. The clasp snapped shut and became wooden once more.
I picked the folder up, and with Fairfax looking over my shoulder, read it.
The date on at the top of the first page showed the case was initiated on July fourteenth, three days prior.
It was a burglary at the High Garden Museum. The Head Curator, Aubert Othmar, reported several items missing from their vault, about twenty in all. Each one had an odd sounding name: Geggor's Tacticar, The Mullock, Brambles of Obsidian, etc.
The next sheet contained Oswall's notes of the crime scene, along with a black-and-white photograph of an open vault. The vault was still full of items, most wrapped and tagged. The stolen objects had been stored in a small locked trunk within, and the trunk was missing. Nothing else was taken from the museum.
Following procedure Oswall examined every door, window and obvious entryway but found nothing amiss.
He then took the next step and interviewed the museum staff. There were eight individuals listed with scribbles by each name. No, no, no, maybe, nervous, pretty. By the curator's name, he had written, snob.
But the last name caught my attention: Winimar Hubertus. But Oswall had only written 'Night Caretaker' beside it.
“Well, now. We may have something,” I said to Fairfax. I showed him the piece of paper from the blotter with the name Hubertus on it.
“A useless night caretaker, eh?” Fairfax said, ruminating.
“Is there any other kind?” I said.
The folder contained nothing else of note except empty forms which were to be filled in as the case progressed.
“Not much here,” I said. “No details about the time of the burglary or the circumstances around it. He must not have gotten around to adding them yet.”
“Whatever progress he made is in that notebook in his pocket.”
“So,” I said. “We need to retrace his movements and see what can be found. At least now we know where to start.”
“And that is?”
I put the business card and piece of paper into the purse within my satchel, then held up the case file.
“Let's take a trip to the museum.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The High Garden Museum was on a grassy plot of land at the west side of town. A huge building, it was several stories tall and made of flat gray brick rock. It had been a supply warehouse during the last great war, but now served a much more useful purpose.
Several horse drawn carriages and auto buggies were waiting at its front entrance, and that is where Fairfax parked.
I eyed the building, then withdrew a small pistol from my satchel and checked it was loaded.
Fairfax arched a brow. “Expect
ing trouble already?”
I gave Fairfax a point for not asking if I always carried it around. With such a long and successful career of throwing criminals in jail, the odds only increased that, even after many years, one of them may seek revenge.
With the pistol back in the satchel I said, “I always expect trouble as a matter of course. But if that cat is right, whoever is responsible for Oswall's death is here. Or associated with it in some way. Best be prepared.”