by Jordan Reece
“What about Grancie?” Jesco said.
“She leads a much quieter life. There was only one item about her that I’ve found so far. She married a fellow named Dircus Dolgang, whose family a few generations back and over to the side started up a carriage empire. He’s not a direct descendent, well-off but never to inherit . . . what’s wrong?”
Jesco had gone for the Silver papers. Remembering that he shouldn’t risk reading them, he pushed everything over to Tammie and said, “There was a Dolgang in Melekei, wasn’t there?”
“Probably nothing,” Scoth said.
Tammie flipped through the papers and stopped at the second to last one. “Here it is. This was from right before Jibb got his promotion to Golden Circle. He delivered a spanking-new autohorse, black and with one white sock, to 64 Ambria Lane, Melekei, care of D. Dolgange. Oh! And it was signed for by one G. Dolgange.” She pushed it over to Scoth.
It wasn’t precisely the same spelling, but they stared at one another around the table. And it still didn’t mean anything, yet Jesco couldn’t help a flicker of hope from taking root in his heart. He looked at the map. Beginning at the street where the old woman who’d received the whirly-gigs lived, he followed Jibb’s most likely path. It led him straight past the address on Ambria Lane.
Jesco let out a shout and shoved the map to Scoth and Tammie, who crowded around to see where he was pointing. Then they were all talking at once. Was the rag in error or was Dircus Dolgang not the same person as the D. Dolgange in the Ragano & Wemill paperwork? What did the G stand for and if it was Grancie, was she related to the Kodolli family? And what, under the moon and stars and sky, could she have had against Hasten Jibb? It wasn’t like he could have been sexually involved with her or the man she had married. She wasn’t in any way involved in Agrea, to Scoth’s knowledge, so what was her connection to Kyrad Naphates, if any? How had the timepiece ended up in that alley and why?
They could do no more without rest, despite their jubilation at finding even the barest thread between Kodolli and Melekei. But then Jesco got in bed and felt a hand slide onto his thigh, and it was much later than that when he finally went to sleep.
His cut was healing well when he looked in the mirror the next morning. For such a small place, it had an enormous bathroom and a counter with two sinks. Scoth was standing over the other one and flattening his hair, which was as unruly as he had claimed when it was left to its own devices. “Why are you getting ready too?” Scoth asked as Jesco washed his face with a cloth. “It’s just Melekei’s Hall of Records today.”
“I will stare at the wall if that’s all I can do, but I won’t be left behind,” Jesco said. This case was wringing him dry and he wanted to see it brought to a resolution. “All I’ll end up doing is staring at the walls here.”
Scoth concentrated on his hair and didn’t put up a fight about it, and Jesco got dressed. The three of them shared a carriage to the station. Tammie went in to start her day and Scoth headed for the precinct’s stables to see if there was an unused police carriage and autohorse. Following him in, Jesco stopped at the stall to look in at Horse. It came forward to have a nose rub. Jesco complied and Scoth yelled back, “I programmed it to do that!”
With the Shy Sprinkler’s case gone quiet, there were several unspoken for carriages and autohorses. Scoth selected an unlabeled carriage used for undercover work, the windows shielded in curtains rather than one-way glass, and a shabby old autohorse model. It stood there like a statue as he reset the destination cards. Another carriage came in while they were there, someone yelling his head off incoherently inside, and two patrolmen exited with a drunken and cuffed man destined to cool his heels in the tank. One nodded to Scoth and said, “Got ourselves a statute four-sixteen here.”
“Nothing good comes of a four-sixteen,” Scoth said, and the patrolmen hauled the yelling man away.
“What’s a statute four-sixteen?” Jesco asked when they were on the road.
“It’s a police code, not official,” Scoth replied.
“That doesn’t explain what it means.”
A grin tugged at the corner of the detective’s lips. “Got to be an officer of the law to know a four-sixteen.”
“Sure, Larrie, I’ll sign up now.”
Scoth traded his amusement for affront, and then he touched the tip of his shoe to Jesco’s. “Fair’s fair.”
The Hall of Records in Melekei had once been a church. Flying buttresses with white pinnacles led up to the nave roof, and when they walked inside the vast building, their footsteps upon the tiles echoed. “I hate these things,” Scoth mumbled, an autolibrarian spinning in place to come their way. At a passing glance, an autohorse could be mistaken for a real one. The same was not true for an autolibrarian. The mouths did not move with the same dexterity as a human’s, their skin was too glossy, and they had wheels instead of legs to reduce the sound they made. To hide this, they were all female so that the wheels could be hidden under long skirts.
This one had a pink-cheeked, youthful face beneath a gray wig, and one of her wheels was squeaking. She stopped before them and opened her mouth after a delay. A recording welcomed them to the Hall of Records and asked what they needed. Scoth told her and then they followed to the stairs going down to the basement. The steps were narrow, halved for a ramp that the autolibrarians could travel upon.
She rolled down it beside them and said at the bottom, “This way, please!”
No human ever could have remembered where anything was in the towering sheaves of papers, books, and newspapers that filled the basement from end to end. Another autolibrarian was down here, without a wig, and she was flipping rapidly through an old, battered book as she read and recorded the information. Then she turned the last page and dropped the book into a wastebin. Giving a polite smile to the newcomers, she said, “Hello, Marjorie.”
“Hello, Julena,” the gray-haired autolibrarian said. She rolled all the way to the back, her skirt brushing on tables and chairs, and stopped. “You will find all the history of a particular address here. Look up the street name first, and please do not remove anything. I will be happy to make copies for you. And no smoking.”
“Thank you,” Scoth said, already moving his finger along the bindings of the black books that filled the shelves. He pulled one out and sat down at a table. There was only a tiny space not taken over by stacks of dusty books.
“How can I help you?” the autolibrarian asked Jesco.
“I’m fine,” Jesco said.
“Would you care to visit the common room for refreshments?”
“No, thanks.”
“Would you care for something to read? We have a wide variety of-”
“I can’t read.”
“Would you like me to teach you?”
“No. I can read, you see, but I have trouble seeing the letters.”
“We are proud to serve the seeing-disabled. What can I read to you?”
“Go away!” Scoth whispered, his nose in the book.
Jesco retreated with the autolibrarian on his heels. “Can you look up Ainscote rag pieces?” he asked.
“Of course. Julena would have that information. What rag do you have in mind?”
Jesco didn’t know. He hadn’t expected the answer to be in the affirmative. “I don’t have the name. But the articles were about a man named Yvod Kodolli.”
She rolled ahead of him and went to Julena, who was reading a new book. The autolibrarians repeated the same greetings and Marjorie informed her what Jesco was looking for. Then Marjorie rolled back upstairs, and Julena’s mouth opened and closed as she processed the request. At one-minute intervals, she delivered assurances that she was accessing the information and thanked him for his patience. Light glinted off the white skin over her skull.
At last, she recited a date from several years ago, and a rag called The Mighty. “Socialite Yvod Kodolli, 23, has been charged with assault for beating a barkeep at The Egalantine Inn who refused to serve him alcohol when his b
ehavior became disruptive. Pleading not guilty, Kodolli appeared in court ever in style, wearing a Burbell suit and a yellow aviator’s cap. He was sentenced to community service.”
The autolibrarian paused to access another article from the same rag. “Grandson of mining magnate Torrus Kodolli, the dashing Yvod Kodolli attended the Royal Remembrances Ball with the noted singer and songwriter Ruza Belk on his arm. Putting aside his legal woes, this most eligible bachelor danced the night away . . .”
Jesco waited as more information was accessed about Yvod. It was all the same. He did nothing but attend parties and court dates. His crimes never graduated beyond bar fights, and his sentences were paltry punishments of community service and restitution to those he injured. In a gossip column was a rumor that his family had severed him financially.
When Julena ran out of her stored information, he asked her to look up Morgan Kodolli. Very little of it was legal matters. He might have had an affair long ago. He cut the ribbon at the opening of a new hospital wing that had been funded by Agrea. Reams of plays and parties were listed with him noted as attending, but unlike his son, he didn’t commit any crimes while there so nothing more was said. When the autolibrarian finished in her recitation of his small doings, Jesco asked for Grancie Kodolli. There was less than either her father or brother. She had been born and married, and that was all except for sporadic mentions of her attending plays and other social events. Jesco said, “Will you look up Dircus Dolgang?”
“It’s a Dircus Dolgange with an –e who currently owns 64 Ambria Lane,” Scoth yelled from the back. “His business is listed as carriage sales.”
“Shhh!” the autolibrarian hissed, her eerily smooth face forming an approximation of a horrified expression as she put her finger to her lips. Lowering it when Scoth quieted, she returned to accessing. All she had in her data banks was his marriage to Grancie Kodolli, and a mention that a Dircus Dolgange owned Fast Ride stores in six cities. Melekei was one of them. The business was luxury carriages, and it was expanding with a seventh store next year in the Sarasasta Islands. Dolgange and his wife Grance maintained a summer home there.
“Laeric!” Jesco called as the autolibrarian shushed him with a duplication of her horrified expression from earlier. Scoth came over, brushing dust from his hands, and Jesco said, “The autolibrarian just read me an article where Dolgange’s wife is referred to as Grance. It has to be Grancie. She just goes by Grance as an adult.”
They decided to go to Fast Ride first since it was on the way to the house upon Ambria Lane. The autohorse pulled them to a fine store, showpieces of carriages at rest beyond the large windows. A man in a suit was speaking to a couple looking over one. Saying that Jesco still looked like he had come out for the worse in a bar fight, Scoth went in alone.
Jesco could see him through the windows talking to an employee. His body was still tingling from their bed games. Scoth was not too openly affectionate outside of the bedroom, but Jesco did not take it as a lack of interest. There were occasional nudges and glances, all of which made his heart beat a little faster. This was just how Scoth was. One had to appreciate the subtle with him, and trust that once the door closed on the world, a different side would emerge.
Ten minutes later, Scoth was back in the carriage with Jesco. “It’s Dircus and Grance Dolgange, definitely, and Dircus has been gone from Melekei for the past three months. His grandmother is ailing and it looks to be terminal, and they were very close when he was young. He hired a manager to oversee all of his stores and he’s gone to Deleven to be with her. He stays in contact through couriers. The last note came just a few days ago, relaying that his grandmother has slipped into a coma. The employee in this store had nothing bad to say about Dircus. Polite, even-handed, pays fair wages and runs an honest business. People like working for him.”
“What about Grance?” Jesco asked.
“No love lost there, on the other hand. He hinted that she doesn’t like the little people of this world. He only sees her now and again because she stops in to handle the books.”
“Did she go to Deleven with her husband?”
“The fellow didn’t know.”
The autohorse took them to Ambria Lane. The houses were beautiful, and the big gardens around them ranged from staid to rollicking. The Dolganges lived beside a house with a garden covered in statuary of fairies and gnomes and exotic birds. But theirs was much more tame in trimmed bushes and stone footpaths that wandered all through an expansive lawn. The windows were closed and curtains pulled on both stories of the grand house. “It doesn’t look like anyone is home,” Jesco said.
Since Scoth had not expressly told him to stay in the carriage, he climbed out after the detective. They let themselves through the gate to the garden, where Scoth looked to the ground and said, “It’s all been newly planted, relatively speaking.”
He indicated the rose bushes, each of which was cupped in a ring of freshly overturned earth. They went to the front door and he knocked. No one answered. After several minutes had passed, he said, “Maybe someone’s in the back.”
Of course no one was in the back, but Jesco nodded like that was perfectly reasonable. They walked down the driveway. The stables were empty, and it was evident that only an autohorse lived here. There was no hay or water bucket or stalls, just an empty room big enough to hold two carriages and an autohorse or two. “I could touch something,” Jesco offered.
“But what?” Scoth asked. “We don’t know if Jibb touched anything, or was even here at all.”
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Past the stables were a lawn and a fence, and on the other side of it was a matronly woman wearing gardening gloves and an apron. Scoth and Jesco retreated quickly from the stables, and Scoth proffered his badge. “We’re with the police, ma’am.”
“Well, it’s about damn time!” the woman exploded. Despite her age and bulk, she scooted over the fence and stalked angrily through the grass. “How many complaints has my husband lodged at your station? Three? Is it four? And just now you are getting around to responding.”
They had no idea what she was talking about, and Scoth said, “The police are very busy, ma’am.”
“Don’t you give me that busy bull-cocky of yours! I’m sick of it, just sick of it, going on all night and into the morning.”
Scoth withdrew his pad and paper and said solicitously, “Tell me the problem as you see it.”
“As I see it?” the woman echoed. “As any reasonable person would see it, I have to live next to a party that keeps me awake once every season! These properties aren’t so big that the noise doesn’t carry, and these people aren’t so respectful that my garden goes untouched in their carousing. They tore up this yard last time, and they stole statues from mine and destroyed the flowers! Carriages all over the road! Horses left to wander! It starts at sunset and goes on near to sunrise.”
“This would be Grance Dolgange you’re speaking of?”
“Yes! There’s the Autumn Revels and the Winter Revels followed by the Spring Revels, and thank the heavens that she takes her summers away from Melekei so I don’t have to listen to yet another one.”
“When were the Spring Revels?”
“Just a few weeks ago. I’d have to get my calendar to tell you the exact date. I saw the carriages and horses and bicycles start arriving and said to my husband to get the earplugs, because there’s going to be another one. She never thinks that she might let the neighbors know beforehand so they can make arrangements to stay elsewhere. Well, my husband Ocel has had enough of this, too. We happened to have our three great-nieces and a friend of theirs staying over that night, and their eyes were as big as saucers to hear the drinking and shouting and swearing in the garden. Ocel asked them to keep it down and they told him off so he turned the hose on and pointed it over the fence. You’ve never heard such foul language! They went inside but we knew it was just a matter of time. At least we had a few hours’ respite, and then I smelled smoke
and they’d started a bloody bonfire.” As Scoth took notes, the woman calmed down. “I went over there last year after a party to talk about this nonsense. This isn’t the country. This isn’t a dormitory at a university either.”
“What did they say?” Jesco asked.
“Mr. Dolgange wasn’t there; he almost never is and I’ve never seen him at these parties. It’s only Mrs. Dolgange and she’s a piece of work. She’s still young, I’ll give you that, but old enough to know better. It’s just a little get-together, she whined at me, a few friends come to talk and have a mug or two of ale. More like thirty to forty friends, all of them yelling and laughing, and vomiting, yes, vomiting when they’ve imbibed too much. Right over the fence and into my shrubberies! They smoke those stinking cigars and sing the crudest songs at the top of their lungs; the men get into fistfights on occasion and someone could get very hurt. They’d damaged the inside of her house as well, I saw when I was there. Drawers dumped out, holes burned in the sofas, her clothes strewn everywhere like they’d tried on everything in her closet for a fashion show. But she didn’t take a word I said seriously. She just threw some money at me to cover the damage to my yard and expected that to be the end of it. And that’s what she’s done ever since, just had one of her servants come over and ask how much the damage was and pay it. But it’s not about the money! It’s about being respectful. Do you know how long it took the gardeners to put this garden of hers back in shape? It was trashed.”
“It sounds terrible to live beside,” Jesco said, since Scoth was writing.
“Yes, it is terrible. The bonfire had me in fits. I could see them out there from my second story back window, dancing all around it like heathens and throwing things in. Clothes, shoes, and two of them were so drunk that they stripped down to their drawers and burned up the rest. They laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. And there was Grance, going back and forth from the house with furniture to let them burn.”