by MK Alexander
“Proper time?” Fynn asked.
“No, library time.”
“Then we have him. That’s only a few minutes. It’s more than likely he’s still on the grounds,” Fynn considered. “Outside, he’ll be mired in proper time.”
“Release the hounds,” the brigadier volunteered eagerly.
“The hounds?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“You actually have hounds?”
“No, not really,” Brigadier Thomas admitted with some embarrassment, “just a few cats that mill about.”
“Wait… you would have seen him leave. He must have gone out the front door,” I said too strongly.
“But I did not.”
“Then he must still be here, somewhere.”
Fynn paused for a moment. “As you say… very good thinking, Patrick.”
“We all saw him leave the salon,” Madeline said.
“Might he have gone upstairs?” Fynn asked.
“Hmm, I hadn’t really thought about that. But why? Why would he go upstairs?”
“You mentioned guests before,” I cut in.
“Yes. All of whom are carefully vetted before I assign them lodgings.”
“Lodgings?”
“The rooms upstairs.”
“These guests are all still here?” Fynn asked.
“I imagine so.”
“Could someone leave by the front door without being seen?”
“I think the bell would ring.”
“What bell?”
“The door bell. It rings whenever the door is opened.”
“Has it?”
“I don’t believe so. It’s rather loud, I would have noticed.”
“What about the other patrons?”
“Everyone who visits has to come through that door. There’s no other way in or out.”
“No back door?”
“Well, through the kitchen, but no one gets by Cook. And they’d still have to come up the main stairs or walk through the salon.”
“Is there a way to close the library?”
“Close the library? Are you mad? We’ve never closed our doors, Tractus.”
“I’m afraid I must insist.”
“I can always lock the door, I suppose.”
“A prudent course of action for tonight.” Fynn paused. “What other guests are here presently?”
“Let me think… We’ll have to scratch Mr Drummond from the dinner list… At present though, we are entertaining Carlos, Raj… Oh, who’s that rather odd fellow, the friend of Sonny’s? The Sheik, Edmund… old professor Mallinger, Zalika, Myra Hatchet, and of course, the two children—”
“A moment, Madeline,” Fynn interrupted. “By Professor Mallinger, you mean to say, Javelin Mortimer.”
“Do I? No— I’m rather concerned for the dear professor…”
“How so?”
“Being so old already and staying here for so long…”
“How long?”
“Hmm… the spring perhaps?”
“And you didn’t recognize him as Mortimer?”
“I’m quite sure he has two eyes,” Madeline replied.
“What sort of credentials did he have?”
“I believe Mr Mears gave him a letter of reference.”
“You’re not saying he’s here as well?”
“Heavens no,” Madeline said. “A horrid little man, caught him stealing my books once.”
“And you accepted his recommendation?”
“In hindsight, I may have been wrong.”
“He has a rather limited grasp of things,” the brigadier added. “The poor fellow doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. Popped in out of nowhere, oh, maybe ten years back.”
Fynn rose from his seat and made for the main exit. I followed.
“Where are you off to?“ the brigadier asked, sensing our urgency.
“To have a chat with the professor.”
“Oh, he’s in Plato’s Academy, second to the right,” Madeline called out. I wondered what she meant.
Fynn and I rushed from the salon to the corridor and up the stairs. We quickly found the room in question but the door was wide open. Inside were two waif-like children, probably about ten years old, sitting on the bed and playing what looked to be a primitive version of Monopoly. I was very surprised to see kids here at all.
“What the devil are you two doing in here?” the brigadier nearly yelled. He had just come up behind us. Madeline had followed as well. She had a softer tone.
“Why children… you are supposed to be in the carriage house…” she said gently and sat next to them on the bed.
“We were playing a game with the old Professor but he just got up and left,” the girl said rather shyly.
“When was this?” Fynn asked with a smile.
“Exactly one hour ago,” they both chimed and glanced at each other.
“Who won?” I asked.
“The Professor always wins…” the boy complained.
Across the room was a dormer, and several bedsheets tied together, trailing from an open window. It was clear someone had climbed down into proper time, though when exactly was a matter for debate.
“Alright children,” Madeline said and clapped her hands. “Run along down to the kitchen. Cook has your supper waiting.”
Both of them hesitated. “Kaiser… Lilian… off you go— now, please.”
***
Inspector Fynn decided it was a good time to interview the other guests in their rooms. Cook appeared at the bottom of the stairs though, and announced with a gong that dinner was served. That seemed impossible to me. I had been gone for hours, I was so sure. And I should have completely lost my appetite, considering, but I had not. Hunger burned through me, it was almost a matter of survival.
“Why not gather in the dining room?” Madeline suggested. “You could question everyone at the table.”
“I agree.”
Fynn gave me a look.
“It’s a chance of a lifetime.”
“How do you mean, Patrick?”
“Get everyone together in the same room and say, one of you here is guilty of murder.”
“There’s a fair chance the killer has already left.” Fynn reached into his pocket and handed me an apple. “Come along, Patrick, please.”
“Is everyone a suspect?” I asked, counting in my head.
He laughed softly. “No, not until after I speak with them.” Fynn was about to knock on the first door when Madeline took his arm.
“A moment, Tractus, and a bit of fair warning. I have Carlos in the Bergson suite,” Madeline almost whispered.
“And?”
“A nice enough sort, though between you and I, he can be a bit grim.”
Fynn knocked loudly on the door marked Henri’s Corner and it immediately flew open. A short but sturdy man appeared, draped in a stunning woven poncho. He was just positioning a sombrero on his head.
“Ah, Madeline, I am only now coming down for dinner.”
“Mr Santayana, good evening. I’m afraid dinner is delayed. There’s been a small incident, you see.”
Carlos glanced at us all.
“These are my friends and well, they have a few questions.”
“Questions?” He laughed. “We all have questions… Gentlemen, please come in.”
“Mr Santayana takes a great interest in ancient North America, pre-Columbian days. I think he’s planning another expedition,” Madeline explained. “Isn’t that right, Carlos?”
“Indeed.”
“To where?”
“Very far back… long before the Conquistadors.”
“He always starts his excursions from the temple.”
“Why is that?”
“He lives on the west coast of Peru, a desert or the mountains… a terrible embarkation point,” the brigadier added.
“Carlos is quite the intrepid explorer. He thinks nothing of traveling back to the days before any amenities whatsoever.”
“Plumbing, mostly… and all things associated with it: bathrooms, hygiene, clean clothes…”
“Indeed, it is a brutal period in history. A man’s life means very little, though I must have time enough to thwart the Conquistadors.”
“And your name is Carlos, right?” I asked.
“The irony is not lost on me, my friend.”
“Wouldn’t that totally change the timeline?”
He looked at me with surprise. “Change the timeline,” he repeated. “What a very strange way to look at it… as if to imply there was only one… ah, even a correct one, eh?” Carlos took me by the shoulder, “But you are interested in such things, amigo? I will tell you about my idea to travel back and meet with the Vikings.”
“Vikings?”
“Yes, a mighty empire we might build—”
“Actually, Mr Santayana,” Fynn interrupted, “There’s been a murder.”
“How terrible. A murder you say?”
“Yes. I am wondering if you know anything.”
“Who was killed?
“We think it may have been Mr Drummond.”
“Ah, the gringo from the Province of Texas— though he would have me think otherwise. We spoke very little. I did not like the man.”
“I see.”
“A shame he is dead. And I won’t deny we’ve tangled in the past.”
“When was that?” Fynn asked.
“Not so long ago, a hundred years perhaps, during their so-called revolution.”
“Did he remember you from then?”
“No, I think not.”
“Did you notice anything odd about his behavior?”
“Nothing remarkable…”
“Have you had any other visitors to your room?”
“No.”
“Well, thank you, Carlos. May we speak again downstairs?”
“Of course, it will be my great pleasure.”
***
The next door in line read John Locke.
“Yoo-hoo, Edmund?” Madeline called out, then turned to us. “He refuses to stay in any other room— well, there is the workbench and all.”
“The man is an unabashed genius,” the brigadier cut in. “He’s the only one who’s managed to get the plumbing to work, and that’s no small feat, given the time differential.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Edmund Fickster, Fynn’s friend. From a rather distant future, a terrible traveler though, always finds himself stuck in the past.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Oh, tinkering with things as usual. He’s probably hanging about waiting for Pavel.”
“Edmund?” Madeline called out again, a bit louder.
“Hello, Madeline… no supper tonight, thanks very much,” someone replied from within.
“I have Tractus Fynn with me.”
“Do you?” the voice asked.
I heard latches undoing and the door opened almost at once. A man appeared wearing an apron, goggles and heavy rubber gloves.
“Good heavens, it is Fynn. Glad to see you, old man. How are you?” He was about to shake the inspector’s hand when he thought better of it. “And who’s this, Patrick, isn’t it?”
“We’ve met before?” I was sure we had not.
“Haven’t we? Maybe not… though I do seem to remember your name, eh?” He laughed nervously. “Come in, come in, please. What can I do for you all?”
I looked around the cramped room littered with notebooks, drawings and schematics. There was a flickering lamp in the corner, and a large workbench across one wall strewn with various tools, wrenches, all sorts of mechanical parts and curious devices, some of them library paddles in various states of disrepair.
“A bit of bother, Edmund,” the brigadier said. “Someone’s been murdered downstairs.”
“In the stacks, you mean?” he asked but seemed extremely distracted. Edmund kept glancing back to the workbench as if it were beckoning. “Dreadful business, but not an accident, not with Fynn on the job. What of it, Inspector?”
“It may be one of the guests, Mr Drummond.”
“Drummond, Drummond? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“The Texan.”
“Ah, yes, my new benefactor.”
“What?”
“He’s agreed to finance some of my inventions.” Edmund paused. “Still, rather an odd sort. Had lunch with him the other day. Completely exasperating… he’s of two minds, I would say.”
“Why is that?”
“We were in the middle of a rather heated discussion about socialism, if I remember… Carlos was there, you can ask him.”
“And?”
“Oh yes, well… just about mid-sentence, he gets up, disappears into the kitchen, comes back to the table, and takes up a completely opposing point of view.”
“Curious indeed.”
“But that’s not really why you’re here, is it?”
“How do mean?”
“Ah, don’t touch that, please…” Edmund called out when he noticed I had moved close to the workbench.
“I’ve seen these before,” I said and picked up one of the bullet shapes.
“Have you?” Edmund asked with some curiosity.
“Capacitor rounds.” I turned towards Edmund.
“That’s right, caps for short, though they are not in general use for, oh, another hundred years or so.”
“What are they for?”
“Stopping people in their tracks. Non-lethal and without wires… incapacitates nearly anyone.” He laughed again.
“Bartholomew is wondering if you have the time to look at our calendar. It seems to be getting stuck again,” Madeline asked and sauntered over, her charms seemingly lost on Edmund.
“Did you give it a good whack on the side?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there you have it then.”
I picked up a brass pocket watch with a black face. “I’ve seen this before too… a libra lapsus compass.”
“Why yes, that’s an apt description.” Edmund gave me a wide smile. “I won’t get that running properly for eighty years or so,” he explained. “I need gallium crystals of extreme purity… none in this time period… Still, why not give it a whirl?”
“Me?”
“It’s just a prototype. No guarantees, I’m afraid.” He paused. “Hmm, I seem to recall that I already gave you one of these. Have you lost it?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well then, here you are… again or not, as the case may be.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s our little secret, don’t tell the Inspector,” he whispered and gave me a nudge with his elbow.
Fynn walked over. “Edmund, Mr Drummond aside…”
“Ah yes, of course… you’re meaning Mortimer.”
“He was here?”
“I didn’t even know it was him. I’ve never seen him so old.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.” Edmund looked around nervously. “It’s about that blasted cane, isn’t it? Definitely Pavel Mekanos’ work, that much I could tell…”
“Do you know from where it is?”
“Twenty-two hundreds or so, given the technology behind it.”
“He asked you to repair it?”
“Yes. Water damage chiefly, dry the circuits and fix a few shorts. I had to remove the inner mechanism though.”
“Inner mechanism?”
“A sort of module that plugs into the cane itself.”
“And you got it to function again?”
“No way of knowing really, not here in the library.”
“I see,” Fynn said, and not without some disappointment.
“He seemed to know Pavel— in fact, Pavel ask me to help him.”
“Directly?”
“Well, no, not directly…” Edmund glanced at us both. “I’ve done something dreadful, haven’t I?”
***
The
sign on the door read, Hypatia House. Madeline knocked softly and called out. “Zalika, dear?”
“Not sure you’ll get much out of her— has a spot of trouble with English. Only talks to Ming…” the brigadier explained.
“Could you call him upstairs?” Fynn asked.
“My door is open. Please come in when ready,” a lovely voice called back.
We entered to find an amazingly beautiful young woman, very tall and dressed as an African princess in a colorful gown and matching headdress. She curtseyed gracefully and said, “Good evening to madame and these fine sirs. Welcome, please.”
“There you are, my dear.” Madeline led us through. “These are my friends, Tractus and Patrick.”
“Happy to meet you. I am here learning to speak English from Mr Sonny Ming.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Mombasa.”
“Part of Haile Selassie’s entourage, I’ve been told,” Madeline commented in a whisper. Sonny Ming appeared moments later and Zalika seemed relieved. Fynn asked a few questions.
“Says she saw a cowboy…” Ming translated. “Or perhaps she said, two cowboys.”
“Can you be sure?”
“Swahili is not my best language.”
To me, it was pretty clear that Zalika was holding up two fingers.
“Where?”
“Down in the stacks.”
“Has she spoken to the Professor?” Fynn asked through Ming.
“Yes,” Zalika answered for herself, “the old Professor joked with me on the stairs. He told me he was going to a hoe-down, a shindig, a hootenanny, a barbecue… All words I did not know.”
Sonny Ming took the inspector aside to report that all the young runners from the stacks had returned to the carriage house; all were accounted for, and none of them had seen anything unusual.
***
The door was already open when we came to Nietzsche’s Nook. I could see a young man pacing back and forth, wearing an odd two-peaked cap and a high-collared Nehru jacket.
“A bit too eager for my liking,” Madeline whispered as we entered, then changed her tone, “Gentleman, this is Raj Ashoka. He works for Mr Gandhi. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He’s made quite a name for himself these days.”
“You’re not saying he’s a traveler,” I whispered.
“Not that I’m aware. Of course you’d have to ask Raj about that.” She smiled at the dark man. “Raj? Terrible news, I’m afraid. One of our guests has been murdered.”