Fantasy

by Rich Horton

  She didn’t think the rose-bushes would break her fall enough to save her. Especially if she hit the fence. Why would the Great Detective murder a wealthy East Side boy? Amazed by the calm precision of her own thoughts even as she twisted, bringing her gloved hands up to fend him off.

  His strength was irresistible. He simply wrapped hands as hard as barrel-hoops around her wrists and—

  —hauled her spluttering back into the room and down onto the floor. “Are you hit?” he asked, patting her cheek anxiously. His hat had tumbled off and fetched up in the far corner, and his glossy, hard-looking hair stood up in disheveled spikes.

  “Hit?”

  “The carriage—” He shook his head. “You didn’t see.” And rolled on his back, away from her, and raised his right hand to point across his face to the ceiling directly overhead. “There was a rifleman down on the street.”

  Detective Crown Investigator Garrett certainly knew the look of a fresh bullet-hole in plaster, when she saw one. “Ah,” she said quietly. “Someone must be taking an interest in the case.”

  * * * *

  A little before noon, Garrett marked time in the antechamber outside the Mayor’s office, grateful at least for the chance to shed her soaked oilcloth. Although the rain had stopped falling and the clouds had thinned shortly before Don Sebastien took his leave, the afternoon promised a continuing overcast.

  Blood and mud still smirched the hem of her walking dress, and it might have been politic to return to her rooms and change. However, his Lordship, Peter Eliot, Mayor of New Amsterdam, had made it known that he expected to see her with all deliberate speed, and far be it from her to think of preserving the man’s prized Persian carpets under such circumstances. Garrett swallowed a pleased smile.

  By the watch pinned to her bodice, she’d been waiting at least twenty minutes before the door opened and the Mayor’s confidential secretary—a well-made young man with dark blue eyes, whom she noted appreciatively—gestured her in. Garrett smiled; she’d taken the opportunity to rifle his desk while he was away, and had one of his visiting cards slipped inside the cuff of her glove. Simon LeMarque, M.Th.S. Another sorcerer. And French. How interesting. The Mayor must be more worried about the Duke and me than he admits. Although, given the number of times he’s tried to—embarrass—us both, I shouldn’t be surprised.

  She swept past Simon LeMarque, holding her soiled dress well aside, and glided to a halt before Peter Eliot’s enormous mahogany desk. The Mayor didn’t trouble himself to look up from the papers that occupied his attention, and Garrett gave her sodden skirts an extra shake to settle them. “Your Lordship.”

  Eliot glanced up. “I understand there was some trouble in the city this morning, Detective.”

  “Crown Investigator, sir,” she answered. “And yes.”

  He nodded judiciously, setting his papers aside. “Have you identified a suspect yet? I’m under pressure from the press, you understand. The gruesome aspect of the murder.…”

  You blithering idiot, I’ve been at the crime scene for six hours. I’ve barely begun my investigation, and you know it. But he isn’t a blithering idiot, and I’d better remember that. “Respectfully, sir, because of the possibly—probably—arcane nature of the crime, it’s a Crown matter now. You shall have to address the press’s inquiries to the Duke’s office.”

  “I’d hate to have them jump to the conclusion that the Duke’s officers are impeding a murder investigation.”

  Ah. The threat made manifest. “The Duke is quite capable of handling his own public affairs, your Lordship.”

  Eliot smiled, uncoiling from his desk. He was a long, narrow man, grey hair thinning at the top, waistcoat tight across the small bulge of his paunch. Probably not much older or taller than the intensely ­annoying Don Sebastien. Despite her professional dislike for the so-called Great Detective, Garrett found herself comparing the Mayor unfavorably to the Spanish aristocrat. “Ah, yes, the Duke. Has he taken an interest, then?” Garrett didn’t miss the jeweled-serpent glitter in the man’s eyes.

  She knew she was one of Richard’s—the Duke’s—biggest political weaknesses. And she suspected the Mayor knew as well, or at least suspected. But he cannot prove a thing, and that is the important part. And my service record is impeccable, for all I am a woman.

  “I have yet to speak to him regarding the case, sir. Usually he prefers not to be involved until the evidence is more complete, and in any eventuality, I have not yet even had time to write up my notes. But you appreciate that I can discuss nothing relating to a Crown investigation with anyone who is not in my chain of command.” And here in the god-forsaken West, my chain of command begins and ends with the Duke. You have no power over me.

  Well, other than the power to endlessly complicate my life. With the exception of Garrett and the city Guard, New Amsterdam’s law enforcement reported to the office of the Mayor. And Garrett desperately needed to keep her access to the resources of the Colonial Police.

  “And I know you like to keep a very personal hand on your investigations, Detective…Crown Investigator.”

  Familiar ice stiffened Garrett’s spine, and she let it freeze her professional smile on her face. “Surely, sir, I have no idea what you might be insinuating.”

  “Ah, of course not. You will keep me apprised?”

  And that’s what this is about. An offer to betray Richard for a place at Peter Eliot’s right hand? Oh, how will I ever resist the temptation. Years of practice kept the ironic tinge from her voice. “Of course, your Lordship.”

  Eliot came around his desk and laid a hand on her upper arm, turning her gently toward the door. “I would be indebted to you, Lady Abigail. I hope you know how impressed we all are with your work. So many women consider themselves fit to fill any man’s shoes—it is always refreshing to meet one who can actually do a job. There are always opportunities for people like you.”

  Ah, yes, the carrot and the stick. The touch, warm through damp cotton, made her skin crawl, and she was again moved to contrast the Mayor with Don Sebastien. She frowned, pushing disloyal images aside. You despise the man, Abigail Irene. The reminder amused her; she let that amusement color her tone. “You will be the third to know, your Lordship. Possibly the fourth.”

  That brought him up short, or perhaps he merely stumbled, spit-shined shoes catching on the nap of the richly knotted carpets. “The fourth?”

  “Ah, yes,” Garrett said, taking advantage of his momentary distraction to disengage her arm and break for the door with all the dignified haste she could muster. Two years of finishing school not entirely wasted. At least I can manage an imperious exit. “Don Sebastien de Ulloa appears to have interested himself in the case.” And he has no loyalty to the Duke, but neither bears he any love for you.

  * * * *

  It was too much to hope that the Mayor would not have her followed, so Garrett did exactly as he would expect. Resuming her carriage, the Crown Investigator gave instructions to her driver to wake her when they arrived at the Duke’s residence, in Queens.

  But she could not sleep. Somewhere along the way, the clouds broke and a slanted line of sunlight glanced off rain-frosted stones, gilding the city. Garrett took a breath of cold air, rich with the promise of spring, and let it out again on a sigh. That’s what you do it for, Abby Irene, she thought. Seven million souls, thirty percent of the population of the Colonies, and the capitol of the British Protectorate of North America. So what if it’s not London?

  She chuckled at the comparison. Well, it’s just not London. That’s all. But you live with your decisions, Abigail Irene. And if living in the would-be-Plutocratic chaos of the Colonies is what it takes to fulfill your duty, so mote it be.

  After crossing the Elizabeth Bridge, her driver turned the rattling coach down Brewster Street, and Garrett smoothed her dress. The mud had somewhat dried; she slipped her gloves off, cracking the powder off her hem. Then she dug in her reticule for lotion to smooth her face and disguise her exhaustion. Not
that she had anything to hide from Richard, Duke of New Amsterdam, but old habits died hard.

  She was tugging the fingers of her gloves back into place when the carriage jolted to a halt on the gracious circular drive of the Duke’s massive white Colonial. Garrett nodded coolly to the groom who rushed to hand her down, and made her way up the broad, shallow steps to the portico.

  The Duke’s servants opened the door before she reached the landing. They ushered her into Richard’s study, where she shooed a two-hundred pound Mastiff out of the loveseat and settled herself before the fire with a brandy from the sideboard. Candles blazed on the marble mantle; the gaslights were not lit. The fair-haired, fiftyish Duke himself joined her before she had halfway finished the glass.

  She set it on an end table and would have stood, but he raised one hand and shook his head. “Keep your seat, Abby Irene. And finish your brandy. I can see that you need it.” He poured a glass for himself before coming to sit beside her, curling his long legs to the side. His hair was wavy, silver at the temples and the nape, the rich ashen color of tree bark. She wanted to run her fingers through it, and instead she sipped her brandy.

  “You can’t be ready to make me a report on that murder yet,” he said, leaning toward her.

  She gave him a troubled smile and put her other hand on his knee, first glancing past him to make sure the door was latched.

  “I locked it,” he said.

  “People will talk.”

  “People do,” he said. “Someday you’ll tell me what brought you to America, Abby Irene. My curiosity keeps me up nights.”

  She sipped her brandy. “I don’t think it was curiosity, Richard. Not last night, anyway.”

  He offered her an expression of frank surprise. “Really? You didn’t sleep well either?”

  “No one did, it seems. And one boy’s night-time wandering may have led to his death.”

  “Ah, yes. Tell me about the murder.”

  “There’s little enough to tell.” She let her hand slide across the tailored dark fabric of his trousers before leaning back, curling against the arm of the loveseat in a manner that would have horrified her tutors. “Don Sebastien has involved himself, but he is—as is his wont—playing his cards close to his chest. And whoever it was that arranged the vanishments and the murder isn’t above a little rough play with a hunting rifle.” Sebastien had dug the flattened bullet out of molded plaster. Now Garrett slipped it from the cuff of her glove and dropped it with a clink into Richard’s brandy glass.

  His lips thinned. “You were not harmed.” Flatly, as if he would accept it no other way.

  “Thanks to de Ulloa, I was not harmed.” She swirled brandy on her tongue, watching Richard fish the bullet out between thick fingers and hold it up to the light. Her voice was more petulant than she had intended when she spoke again. “If I could find the rifle that came from, I might be able to prove who fired it. And I wish you would let me have that Peter Eliot assassinated.”

  “Abby Irene.…”

  “I know, my love. I’m not—quite—serious. Yet. But you know he’d rather have your nephew in your place.”

  “David is too young.” The Duke raked a hand through his hair and bit his lip. “Which is why Peter would want him in my place. Of course, I’d have to be dead.”

  “Dead or abdicated.” She did not permit longing to enter her voice.

  “There is that. And there are days when the temptation to divorce is overwhelming. But then I think of Mayor Peter Eliot. And the French and Iroquois on our Western border. And,” he continued bitterly, “King Phillip, and his Eastward-looking eye.”

  “I wouldn’t have you anyway, Richard.” Trying for levity.

  He toasted her, one eyebrow raised, his voice rich with irony. “What sensible woman would marry a man she knows to be unfaithful?” Into her silence, he continued, “The murder.”

  She finished her brandy. “Grisly,” she said, standing to pour herself another. “Inhuman, I think. Nasty.”

  “Ah.” He frowned as she turned back.

  She saw him taking in the disarray of her dress, and drew herself up a little prouder. You were a famous beauty once, Abigail Irene. If you’re stupid enough to sleep with your superior, you’d best be smart enough to use whatever you have left. “Also, the murdered boy was slain on his own doorstep. Mud to your ankle, and not a footstep. No marks and no signs anywhere, except two windows open and his whole family missing.”

  The Duke leaned forward, all but ready to jump to his feet. “Missing? How many?”

  “Mother, father, adolescent sister, housekeeper. Strange.”

  “Indeed. Continue.”

  Garrett shrugged. “Most odd was the wax.”

  “Wax? Candlewax?”

  “Droplets of it. Scattered throughout the house. Splashed. Near the boy’s body as well.”

  “I see. And yet no leads?”

  Garrett shook her head. “If I locate the candle—presuming it is a candle—I’ll be able to use the principles of contagion, similarity and sympathy to prove that the wax originated with that particular one, and we’d have a case. But.…”

  “But?”

  “Well.… Richard, I have nothing. I haven’t even a trail to follow, and four people are missing who may very well be alive and in danger somewhere.”

  Across the room, he nodded. “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  No smile creased Richard’s face now. “You say that Don Sebas­tien has taken an interest?”

  Garrett nodded curtly.

  “Use him,” Richard said, coldly. “Use whatever it takes. I’m relying on you, Abby Irene.”

  “Richard,” she answered softly. And: “My Lord.”

  * * * *

  Garrett seldom entertained at home, and when she did, they were usually the sort of guests one received in the den, or the library. Her laboratory was on the first floor of her townhouse, immediately behind the parlor, where one might have anticipated a dining room. The room itself was half study and half chemistry, with books and chairs lining the walls and long stone-topped benches running parallel.

  Cleanly clothed, now, and gowned in a white canvas smock to protect her dress, Garrett moved crisply between her granite-topped workbench and the thaumaturgic circle inlaid in red and white stone tiles amid the slate-blue field of the floor. She laid out the samples she’d isolated from the body of the murdered boy: earth, fingernail clippings, scraps of his clothing and scrapings from the steps on which he had died. She piled each sample in a shallow watch glass placed in one of the isolation circles. Those smaller peripheral circles also held beakers of clotted blood and an Erlen flask of rainwater, along with samples of hair that she had retrieved from the toiletries of the missing individuals—a bit of everything she meant to eliminate from the parameters of her spell. At the very center of the circle, over the gas flame, a crucible warmed. A low table set beside it held a small heap of candles brought from the victims’ house and several more watch glasses.

  Three of these shallow dishes each contained a bit of the waxlike substance. The last one cradled splinters from the gouges in the blue wooden door.

  By seven o’clock, Garrett was on her second pot of tea. Mike had come in to find her after his supper and was dozing in his basket. Straightening from her bench, she had just thought of pausing for her own meal before the evening’s real work when a familiar tap on the door brought her head around. Mike pricked up his ears and hopped to his feet as she opened the door.

  “Supper already, Mary?” Garrett asked the dark, narrow-shouldered housekeeper standing in the hallway.

  Mary’s eyes twinkled. “If it please you, m’Lady, there’s a right handsome gentleman caller to see you. I’ve invited him in.” Mary extended an ornate silver tray so that Garrett could pick up the visiting card lying on it.

  “Ah. Indeed?” She didn’t think she needed to glance at the name—the slightly oily feel of parchment between her fingertips told her everything. “Engraved. Very
nice. Send Don Sebastien in, please. I will receive him in the laboratory.” Mike wagged his coiled plume happily after Mary; she ducked her head and left.

  Mary must have taken the gentleman detective’s overcoat and hat, but Garrett noticed that the shoulders of his coat were damp through. “Is it raining again, Don Sebastien?” Absently, her hand came up to press the place between her breasts where a sigil tattooed in crimson marked her training. She felt as if his gaze burrowed through cloth to notice it.

  “Indeed,” he said, bowing over her hand, making no comment on her stained smock. Again, his lips brushed the back of her fingers— ungloved, this time—and sent a shiver down her spine.

  Her terrier withdrew to his basket and watched the tall stranger warily. She snapped her fingers for Mike’s attention, and his tail flipped twice, but he merely lay there, watching with disturbing, alert eyes.

  “Have you had any success, my dear Crown Investigator?”

  She sighed and turned away, gesturing toward the circle. “As you can see, I am just about to commence. What have you discovered, Don Sebastien? As I recall, when we parted company, you were on your way to research the boy’s family.”

  “And so I was. May I sit?”

  “As it pleases you,” she answered. He selected a wingbacked chair against the wall, pushed away from Garrett’s equipment and opposite Mike’s basket, not far from the hearth.

  When he was settled on the olive brocade and had refused tea, he began to speak. “The lad’s name was Bruce Carlson, home on Easter break from a school in Westchester. His family, as you no doubt noticed from the house, were not without resources, which proved fortunate for them, because the lad seems to have been something of a troublemaker.”

  “Really?” Garrett turned up the flame under her crucible and began breaking the candles into it. “What sort of trouble?”