by Adam Drake
I knew the area. “Why would they be walking along Muddy Way in the early morning? The place is devoid of anything of note. Other than trees, mud and the risk of being robbed by bandits.”
“I don't know,” he said with a shrug. “We can ask them.”
“No, you can ask them,” I said. “You are the acting detective now, after all. With Oswall gone, you are next in seniority.”
Fairfax took a moment to digest this. He said, “I thought you would assist with the investigation.”
“I said I would take a look, nothing more. If I can help with the initial survey, then I will. But I am through with detective work.”
Quiet now, Fairfax gripped the wheel a little tighter.
“Oh, I'm sorry Fairfax,” I said. “But I cannot let myself get dragged into another case. Not again.”
Fairfax glanced at me, his expression unreadable. I sensed his frustration. From what I knew he only started his detective training and trial period. It would be a good year before he would earn a Detective Constable's badge.
I felt sorry for him. I did. By refusing to help I put him in a lurch. The pressure to solve Oswall's murder, or any murders, would be all his. But I refused to get involved any more. That part of my life was finished. Now I rescued stranded children, which suited me fine.
“I understand, ma'am,” Fairfax said. “And I respect it. Thank you for coming, anyway.”
Inspecting the murder scene was the most I wanted to do. I tried to not let a swell of guilt overcome me but failed. This would not be easy.
“Here we are,” Fairfax said, indicating the road ahead.
There were several police buggies parked along the road side next to the entrance of a bridge. The bridge itself was of a stone construction from an era long gone. A rickety wooden roof covered its length and looked to be in severe disrepair.
Fairfax parked us next to the other buggies. I felt a fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. Whenever I arrived at a crime scene, murder or otherwise, it always gave me a shot of energy. I tried to ignore it.
When I exited the vehicle another constable approached me with a grin. “Miss Beeweather. Glad to see you're here. How are you doing these days?”
“Fit and fine, Constable Webster, thank you,” I said. Better than Detective Oswall, I thought, then frowned. When had I become such a bitter old fool?
A man and woman skulked nearby in the shade of a tree and were talking with a constable who scribbled notes on a pad. The couple shot concerned glances in our direction.
“They are the ones who found Oswall?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Webster said.
“They look nervous,” I said.
Webster looked at them. “Yes, but I don't think they have the ability to have done it.”
“Why is that, Constable?” First rule at the start of a murder investigation is that everyone is a suspect. Everyone.
“Only that I don't know who or what could have killed Oswall in such an... odd manner.”
Intrigued now, I said, “Lead the way, please, if you will.”
I followed the constables to the river embankment. From its edge I looked down at the sluggish river rippling past. Its slate gray water reflected the morning sun.
“He's under there,” Fairfax said, pointing toward the bank below the bridge. From this angle nothing appeared amiss.
As we climbed down the rocky embankment Fairfax offered me his hand. I declined with a polite smile and made it to the bottom on my own without tumbling fanny-over-teakettle.
We crossed the shadowed terminus of the bridge, and I spotted Detective Oswall.
I stopped, agog.
It was Oswall. He stood upright which, for a dead body, indicated something obviously strange. Cloaked in shadow and facing away from me I saw one arm extended before him.
I took a few steps closer. Stock still, the man made no movement. The breeze here did not so much as disturb a hair on his head, nor did it ruffle his pullover coat.
As I drew up to him I gasped in disbelief.
“He's been turned to stone!” I said, amazed.
“So it would appear,” Fairfax said.
I looked closer, and nodded. Definitely Oswall, right done to the last detail. If I didn't know that he was solid stone I would have sworn he had been completely painted a rocky brownish color. Even his eyes, wide in shock, had been affected.
For several moments I only stared at him. I knew him, I'd worked with him, and I helped train him. But now?
He was a statue. Caught in a pose of warding someone or something away. His other hand gripped the pistol at his hip, still holstered, and all stone.
“I have a strong dislike for these magic cases,” Webster said, keeping his distance from Oswall.
“They can be challenging,” Fairfax said. I sensed he disapproved of the younger constable a little. Then he said, “Oh, Chief Constable's direct order is that no one is to mention what has befallen Oswall. Not without his say so. Doesn't want to create a panic.”
I nodded, then said, “Someone caught him off guard,” noting Oswall's stance.
“Snuck up on him,” Webster said.
I shook my head and tried to figure the angle of Oswall's eyes. “It doesn't appear so. See how he is facing directly ahead. Not toward the edge of the bridge foundation where a person might jump out. It looks like he was perhaps speaking with someone. Or someone approached him from along the river bank.”
The two constables mumbled their agreement.
I blinked out of my thoughts and realized I had forgotten to ask the obvious. “We are certain this is Oswall, yes? Not a carved statue placed here as a joke? Oswall is not at home sick in bed while we fiddle about in the mud?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Fairfax said. “I went to speak with his wife just before coming to you. She'd been beside herself with worry as Oswall had not returned home last night, or this morning. She thought he was on an extended stake out, but upon seeing me coming up the walk she started to cry.” He frowned.
I nodded. To tell a person that a loved one was dead had always been the worst part of working this job.
I wanted to ask Fairfax how he explained Oswall's manner of death to his wife, but refrained. Not my affair. Instead, I asked, “When was the last time anyone saw him?”
Webster said, “Maginhart said he left the Constabulary shortly after seven last night, as best he can remember.”
“His wife last saw him yesterday morning, before leaving for work,” said Fairfax.
My eyes roamed up and down Oswall's rocky figure. One hand on his pistol, the other held out in front of him, its palm up and flat as if trying to deflect something. Eyes wide in fear? Shock? Horror?
I noticed a thick little spiral bound note pad sticking out of the exposed inside jacket pocket of his coat. It, too, was complete stone.
“There's his case book.”
“Yes,” Fairfax said. “Won't be much help to us now, unfortunately.”
That was an understatement. As a detective worked a case he scribbled notes in a notebook which was almost always on his person. If Oswall met someone here, which is how it appeared, he might have written the name in his case book.
Struck with a thought, I looked at Oswall's shoes. The stone soles of them did not appear to be fused with muddy ground beneath them. Whatever occurred here only effected Oswall.
Then I saw something else and knelt closer.
“What is it?” Fairfax said.
“Look,” I said and pointed. “See how the mud under his feet is pushed outward?” A little trough of mud ringed the base of both shoes.
“Perhaps he's slowly sliding into the river?” Webster offered.
“No,” I said. “See how the cleared area extends to both sides of him, toward the river and then the opposite direction.”
“Someone moved him,” said Fairfax and scowled.
“Heavy that,” Webster said.
“Too much for whomever tried to push him,” I said. Oswall was a
husky fellow, almost portly. Before he was heavy, now he was almost immovable.
I looked around the area in front of Oswall, in the direction he was looking. The mud and rock debris here made it impossible to see footprints.
“We did a sweep,” Fairfax said as he watched me inspecting the muddy ground. “The boys did a thorough job.”
“That couple sullied the crime scene when they found him. Walking about and all,” Webster said.
“I am aware,” I said. I still looked. Once I reached the far side of the bridge the ground became too rocky.
There had to be something. I sensed it. I took a moment to glance inside my satchel. The knitting bag's clasp remained wooden. No help there.
The river chuckled at me while it coursed along.
Webster asked Fairfax, “How are we going to move him, anyway? Just from looking at him I'd guess he must be as heavy as a plow horse.”
“We'll get the truck so to keep him covered,” Fairfax said, frustration growing in his voice.
I looked toward the underside of the bridge; a thick, stone laced wall. I thought I caught the glint of something.
“Yes, but then what? Push him onto it somehow? Would take all the constables in the force to do that. Maybe more,” Webster said.
I approached the wall. Something was there, drawn on its surface.
“That is a matter of concern for later,” Fairfax said. “Right now is the investigation.”
Webster wouldn't let it go. “We could tie ropes to him, then drag him behind the truck. That might work.”
Fairfax ground his teeth in frustration, but I would not be distracted. I came up on the drawing. No, not a drawing. An engraving.
It looked at first glance to be just a set of long squiggly lines running up and down on the surface of a flat stone. By squinting at it I made out a figure. A long bulbous head, with a half dozen tentacles dangling below it.
A squid.
“There will be no dragging of constables while I'm in charge, understand?” Fairfax said.
“Maybe we can push him with the truck,” Webster said, still thinking over the dilemma.
“Gentlemen,” I said with mild exasperation. “Did you notice this?”
The two constables walked closer.
“Yes,” Webster said. “Noted and disregarded.”
“How so?” I asked with genuine surprise. “This might be important.”
“Well, it's just a bit of graffiti,” Webster said. “That sort of thing is everywhere now.”
“Everywhere? Graffiti or this specific image?” I asked.
Webster shrugged. “Both, really.” He sensed my annoyance. “I'll add it to my report, though.” He walked away, making a show of writing in his own case book, trying to get a safe distance from me.
I sighed then held my hand over the etching without touching it and felt a faint tingling sensation against my palm.
“Magic?” Fairfax asked.
“Yes. Someone spelled this into place,” I said withdrawing my hand and fished through my satchel. “Also, see how clean the area is around it? This was created recently. Maybe at the time of the attack.”
“Those have been appearing all around town,” Fairfax said, peering at the squid image. “No idea what it could mean. Do you?”
I found what I was looking for and pulled out a long piece of paper and a charcoal pencil. On occasion, an old bird like me took to drawing the locals strolling through the park. I was terrible at it.
“No, I don't. Here, hold this up, will you?” I said. Fairfax pressed the paper against the stone and I ran the pencil across it, capturing the squid image.
Finished, I rolled the paper up and put it back in my satchel.
“Did anyone find his buggy?” I asked Fairfax.
“No, we haven't. I have constables searching further down the road, past the bridge, and another down the river. There's an old dirt lane running along it from here.”
“Well, he had to arrive at this spot somehow. Either someone dropped him off, which I seriously doubt, or someone took his buggy after he was... stoned.”
“It was a police vehicle so I don't think they would drive it about on a lark,” Fairfax said.
I nodded, hands on my hips. “Okay, this should do for the moment. Now, let's go talk to our prime suspects.”
Fairfax raised his eyebrows. “Prime suspects? Those two mud people?”
As we walked past Oswall a pang of sadness struck me. He had been a good man, overall.
“Until you can delve into Oswall's case files, those mud people are the only suspects you have.”
CHAPTER THREE
We climbed back up the embankment and walked to the buggies. Overhead the morning sun crawled up the blue sky and I realized Oswall would never witness another sunrise ever again.
The couple were still in their shady spot only now they appeared to be more annoyed than nervous. As he smoked a cigarette, the man tried to blow rings at his companion. When we approached they jumped to attention as if at a military inspection.
“Good morning,” I said.
They both mumbled a good morning in return, and I got a better assessment of them. The woman was short and stout, hard looking. A tough life no doubt made her appear far older than she was. Dirt and filth etched every wrinkle on her face and hands. She wore a coat, which was too small for her plump figure, and clutched a tiny old purse in front of her.
The man wore a baggy patchwork overcoat, pea green trousers which did nothing to conceal his mismatched socks, and a beaten up cap. He was just as grimy as she was.
Fairfax was quiet so I simply jumped into questioning. “May I ask your names, please?” I said.
The man spoke. “I'm Malwin Amata and this here is my sister, Gescha.”
“And you found this man this morning, correct?”
“Yeah, that's right.”
“And what was your business down here at the river at such an early hour?”
Malwin looked a little flustered at the question. “Well, our business here is our own, ain't it? What business is that of yours?”
“Malwin, be polite with the lady,” Gescha said.
Her brother crossed his arms and curled a lip. “I already spoke to that other constable over there. Why don't you go get what I said from him, eh?”
I kept my expression neutral but inwardly I sighed.
Fairfax leaned in and said, “Just answer the questions, now. You don't want any troubles.”
Gescha punched her brother in the shoulder. “We want to talk, right?” she said to him and he scowled.
I tried a different tactic. “We want to clear you as a suspect so you folks can be on your way.”
This had the desired effect. Malwin uncrossed his arms and his scowl vanished.
“Suspect?” he said with alarm. “We ain't no suspects, just found him is all. We had no hand in whatever it was that happened to him.”
I gave him a slight smile. “And what were you two doing here?”
Malwin scratched his stubbly chin. “Looking for things that wash up along the riverside. Bits and pieces of things. Something to sell. You never know what the river gives up on occasion. Especially for someone who's hard on his luck.”
From the state of these two I knew his reason was most likely plausible. Hard times abound. But it had always been that way. People were forced to do anything to make a few copper bits. Scavenging was the most common.
“What happened when you found him?” I said.
Malwin blinked wide eyed a few times as if trying to manifest the event from his memory. “We were following the river from the Hearts district since about four this morning. Didn't find anything worth our time and effort. So, if nothing is found at one part of it, you gotta keep walking along until you do. Took some two hours before we ended up here. I was telling Gescha that maybe we should just turn back or we'll be stuck out in the woods at night fall.”
“He gives up so easily,” Gescha said.
; Malwin glared at her. “Do not!”
Gescha frowned shaking her head, then said, “Put a drink in his hand and he'll be in the cups all day and night. But try to make him earn the money for those drinks, even for a little while, and he collapses like wet parchment.”
“That's not true at all, and you know it!”
I interjected before things got out of hand. “So what time was it when you arrived at this bridge.”