by Adam Drake
“No, not a record, thankfully.” I put the satchel on the ground.
Misael looked at our exchange, befuddled. “Might I ask what you two are going on about?”
Fairfax smiled at him, “Stand back, Mr. Rousset, and you will see for yourself.”
I exposed the knitting bag and touched the clasp. It yawned open and began to wiggle.
“Oh, my dear!” Misael said and recoiled in the chair.
A cat's head appeared. This one was orange with white spots.
I asked the cat, “What book did Elicia Ipthorn steal?”
The cat did not move. It only watched me with an intent stare.
Fairfax asked Misael, “Sir, if we knew which cabinet the book was stored in would that help you narrow the search?”
Misael was staring wide eye at the cat, but turned to answer Fairfax. “Well, yes, it would. But what can a cat do to help? Strange place to keep a cat if you ask me. Cruel even.”
Fairfax chuckled.
This time I asked the cat, “From which cabinet did Elicia Ipthorn steal a book?”
The cat launched itself from the bag startling Misael who yelped in fright. The orange cat trotted over to one of the smaller heavy oak cabinets.
“Your cat is well trained, Detective, but I don't see how it will -”, he stopped talking as he watched.
The cat lifted one paw and touched the cabinet door. There was an audible click as the lock came undone, then the door swung open on its own.
“By the Gods!” Misael proclaimed in astonishment.
Inside the cabinet were rows of drawers. The cat moved closer and stared up at a drawer near the top. That drawer also clicked and slid open. Then the cat scampered back to the satchel and vanished into the bag with a jump.
Misael stared in utter disbelief. His eyes went from the bag to me, then to the bag again. “That's... that's the Bag of Infinite Cats.” He regarded me, awestruck. “That means you're the direct descendant of -”, he said before I interrupted.
“Who I am descended from means nothing at this moment as there is a murderer running around the town.”
Misael still stared at me in amazement.
Frustrated, I said, “Please, Mr. Rousset, if you will?” I motioned to the cabinet.
The bookshop keeper snapped out of his trance. “Yes. Yes, of course. Let's take a look.” He walked to the cabinet but gave me a frightened glance.
He would be happy to pay me a gold piece for that little show, I thought with mild amusement.
Misael looked into the open cabinet. “Empty,” he said, his brow furrowing. He removed a clipboard from the cabinet's inner paneling and ran a finger down a list. He stopped, with a look of confusion. “Well, that is peculiar.”
“What is?” I asked.
“There is a missing book, but not one of any real value. The title roughly translates to Magical Sources and Rebirths. Mad Scribe Perrick Faywin was the author. It is almost complete gibberish, something even the most ardent translator would be unable to decipher beyond bits and pieces of text.”
“Magical Sources and Rebirths,” I said. “Do you have any idea what it contained?” And why someone would kill for it?
“Yes, well, not much is known about it. From the fragments of sentences which could be understood Perrick had a fascination with breaking magic down to its most basic essence. He believed any spell or item could have its magical elements reversed. But nothing of the sort can be done, or has been done. Not even at the Citadel. It's an impossibility.”
I let this information sink into my tired old brain for a moment. “Might such a theory result in an artifact having its soul-bound limitation broken? So it could be bound to someone else?”
Misael eyebrows beetled on his forehead. “Well, perhaps. But we are dealing with the fanciful ravings of a lunatic. Perrick was not known for being sane. He was called the Mad Scribe after all.”
My thoughts raced with the potential implications of this.
When Fairfax noticed my distraction he asked Misael, “How long was this book in your possession?”
“Oh, a little over a week. Picked it up as part of a lot sale at the auction house.”
“Did anyone bid against you?”
“No one. But that is typical. There is little interest in books as an investment now a days.”
Until now, I thought. “Did anyone come to your store and ask for the book?”
Misael's face froze. “Oh, by the Gods. Yes! A man came in about four days ago and asked for the tome by name. He was a strange one, too.”
“Can you describe him?” Fairfax asked.
“He was tall and skinny. Wore all black clothing. Funny looking nose, too. Long and hook shaped. But that wasn't what was strange about him.”
Tired of waiting for a straight answer I asked, “What was strange?”
“Well, he wore make-up.”
“Make-up?” Fairfax said.
“Yes, white make-up all over his face. He looked to be a mime on a shopping trip. It made me assume he had a condition of the skin which needed the outrageous application.”
“And he offered to buy the book?” I asked.
“Yes, but I refused to sell it to him.”
“Why is that?”
“After only spending a few moments with the man I realized I just didn't like him. And when I refused he raised his price. Double, then triple! Still, even though the money would have been useful, his desperation to obtain the book put me off. I told him it was not for sale and asked him to leave.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Unfortunately, no. Though by his demeanor, I suspect it would have been as fake as his face.”
“What happened when you asked him to leave?”
“Well, he ranted and raved, calling me unprofessional and then left. I pushed out the entire incident from my mind.” He looked at the empty drawer with realization dawning on his face. “And now I see that by my refusing to sell him that book has resulted in Elicia losing her life. The poor woman.”
I did not argue the last point. “Was Elicia here during this exchange?”
“Yes, she was.”
“Then I think either he approached her about purchasing the tome, or she contacted him somehow.”
Misael shook his head. “I'd suspect the former. Poor Elicia wasn't the brightest girl. The notion to steal from me was beyond her realm of capability. She had to have been coerced.”
“That is a possibility,” I said, though mostly to make the man feel a little better.
“But how did Elicia get the book from the cabinet? The keys are always on my person.”
“I believe your love of tea was how she did it.”
“What do you mean?” Misael asked.
“I found a bottle of sleep berries at her townhouse. It would not have been a stretch for her to drop one in your tea and wait until you fell asleep to take the keys from you. Then after she stole the book, and secreted it away, she returned them.”
Misael went silent, hurt by the betrayal of one he trusted.
As Fairfax and I were leaving Misael said, “Please. As a favor to me and poor Elicia, find this man and make him pay for what he has done.” There was anger in this gentle man's eyes.
“Of that, Mr. Rousset,” I said. “I promise.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We left the bookshop keeper with his regrets and returned to the buggy.
“So we need to find a tall, rude, skinny man covered in all black attire and wearing women's make-up,” Fairfax said. “Should not take us long.”
“I admit our list of suspects is still as non-existent as when we started. But this revelation about the book Elicia stole provides a few answers,” I said.
“How so?”
“The suspect stole the Talon from the museum, but could not use it. It was inert. So the suspect tries to get the Magic Sources & Rebirth book from Rousset. Maybe he did not know of its existence until after the auction. When he could not purchase the book h
e manipulated Elicia into stealing it.”
Fairfax nodded. “He meets her at her home, going through the back door at night. Then he... turns her to stone?”
I held up a finger. “Not yet. The Talon is still useless at that point. So he checks the book to confirm its validity, finds the spell within its pages and reads it somehow. He must be versed in the language. The spell works, breaks the soul-binding on the Talon from Gunther the Ungrateful, and binds it to himself.”
“How do you bind an artifact?”
“By touch,” I said, and did not want to get into the details for which I was familiar. “So once the artifact is bound to him his first act is to test the Talon on poor Elicia.”
“As she was drinking her tea, daydreaming of her future life in the South Islands.”
“Yes, but why he would desire the Talon, specifically, is beyond me. If he wanted to kill someone using a pistol would work just as well.”
“But less grand a spectacle.”
I shrugged, “As to his true motivations for trying to obtain the Talon and get it bound to himself, I am at a loss.”
Fairfax said, “So why kill Oswall?”
“He must have found a connection to the suspect, or was getting too close for comfort. Then he was lured to Muddy Way on some pretext and turned to stone.”
“Oswall knew of Elicia. Wrote her name on that card for a reason. How did he make the connection between the museum burglary and Elicia? There must be an overlap.”
I pondered that. “He was pulling on a thread we missed.” Then I sighed. “Ah, Fairfax we've gotten ourselves tangled up in some ugly business. It makes me tired.”
“Let's report in at the Constabulary, then I will take you home. We will pick up first thing in the morning. And I will bring biscuits this time.”
That made me laugh, which was what I needed.
We drove back to the Constabulary as the sun was setting on the horizon. As we turned into the lot there was a large open backed truck parked there. A small crane atop it was lowering something wrapped in canvas to the ground. Constable Webster was supervising, shouting instructions to two men working the crane.
He nodded to us as we approached. “Finally managed to get him here in one piece. Took a bit of work, too.”
I must have been more tired than I realized because it then hit me that the object being lowered was Detective Oswall.
“Well done, Constable,” I said.
Fairfax looked around the lot. “Where are you going to... uh... store him?”
“He's too heavy to move inside, might ruin the new floors, so the Chief suggested we put him over there under the awnings. Should keep any rain off of him. We'll be moving the woman out of the townhouse tomorrow.”
I looked at the canvased statue of Oswall. His outstretched hand poking out, forever trying to ward off his doom.
We left Webster to his task and went inside. As we passed Sergeant Constable Maginhart's desk I snatched another biscuit from the tin. I had not eaten all day.
The kennel area was full of constables going about their business. It was a shift change, with a handful of them staying on for the night. Crime never sleeps.
“Chief's here,” Fairfax said, and I saw the rock lights in his office were on.
As we entered the Chief saw me, stood and rounded his large desk. He took my hand into both of his and for the briefest of moments I thought he would kiss it. Now wouldn't that have been a thrill at my age?
“Beeweather!” Chief Constable Kyrill said. “Such a pleasure to see you again. I do wish it was under different circumstances though. How are you feeling?” He noticed how tired I was.
“I'm fine, thank you,” I said. I blushed at his attention. “It has been a rather long day.”
Kyrill released my hand and motioned to a chair. “Please sit,” he said, and I did. It felt good to relax a little but my mind was still heavy with thoughts of the case.
Kyrill looked to Fairfax, “So, any progress?”
Fairfax opened his mouth to answer when a voice from the doorway behind us cut him off.
“That is what I want to know!” It was Sigwald Archambault looking flush from hurrying through the kennel to confront us.
Behind him arrived his lick-spittle of an assistant, Davlon Blythe. Upon seeing me, Blythe sneered, which only emphasized the ugly birthmark under his left eye.
“Mister Mayor,” the Chief said with a sigh. “To what do we owe this interruption?” He had no admiration for Archambault, of which I was grateful. It would only make the lives of the entire Constabulary that much more difficult.
Archambault glared at me. “What is she still doing on the case? I made it perfectly clear that reactivating retired personnel was against regulations unless approved through a committee -”.
Kyrill stopped him with a raised hand, annoyance on his face. “Enough Sigwald. We know why you are really here. You are sore at Beeweather for throwing your crooked business partners into a deep, dark hole. And now you see an opportunity to vent your spleen.”
Archambault's face was near apoplectic. “How dare you make such a vile accusation, sir! My concern is only that the rules are followed. Allowing an old woman to trollop through a very important case with her little animal show is not one of them!”
Blythe sniffed approval at his master's tirade.
Kyrill took a step closer to the mayor, looming over the smaller man. “Who I assign to a case is my responsibility. Not yours. If you wish to file a formal complaint then please do.”
“I will!” said the mayor, wide eyed.
“Although,” the Chief said, “it would be a complete waste of time as the case will most likely be solved by then.”
The mayor's eyes bounced between the Chief and myself as if looking for a hint of deception. “Is this true? Do you have a suspect?”
I spoke for myself. “We have leads, but I believe we will have something soon.” That might not have been true, but if felt good to say it to the mayor.
Fairfax leaned forward. “And most all the progress we made today was thanks to her little animal show.”
Archambault's eyes glanced at my satchel and for a moment he looked worried. He turned to Chief Kyrill. “Then this time tomorrow, Chief Constable, if a suspect is not in custody, I will have your badge.”
Chief Kyrill blinked in surprise. But before he could respond in kind, Archambault whirled around and marched out the office, with Blythe scurrying close behind.
Once the two were out of earshot everyone in the office let out a sigh of relief.
“What an unpleasant little man,” I said and not for the first time that day.
“No matter how many times he is reelected,” Chief Kyrill said, “his manners never improve.”
Fairfax said, “Can he do that, sir? Just take your badge away on such a whim?”
The Chief shrugged, “Perhaps. But not without a fight from the Constabulary's supporters on the council, few they may be. Oh, he'll raise a stink and make life a little more difficult, but he's been doing that for years anyway.” He looked hopeful for a moment. “Do you have a lead?”
I looked to Fairfax who could only offer a supportive smile. “Well, Chief Constable, we are working on that as hard as we can.”
Kyrill raised a hand. “That is all I ask for. But for now I think you two should get some rest. You both look drained.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fairfax. “Thank you, sir.”
As we left the Chief's office and went back to the buggy a sensation of cold dread washed over me. There was more at stake here than an old detective's professional pride.
If I could not close this case and the Chief was replaced with a puppet of the mayor, then the entire future of the Constabulary would be at risk.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After Fairfax dropped me off at my home I immediately went to the kitchen and made myself a cheese and beet sandwich. A favorite of mine since childhood I found some small solace in the ritual of eating it. The ta
ste was wonderful.
As I ate my eyes wandered to my satchel which sat open on the kitchen chair beside me. Next to the knitting bag was my little pistol. I took it out and, not for the first time that day, checked to ensure it was loaded.
I wondered at such an odd life I had led. To be at such a stage in my later years that a pistol was required for my safety. When was it fired last? During the case of the wolfmen pack that stalked the Hearts district? No. During the case of the demon which took over the King of the Rats? No, that was too far back in the past.