City of Wolves

by Willow Palecek

  “Sister, let me handle this.”

  “I most certainly will not. I have spoken with Colin, and I agree with him. An outside opinion is worthwhile.”

  “Very well, then.” Corth turned his gaze towards me. “Know this: Insult my family again, and we will have a formal duel. Stick to your business.” He stormed off.

  Mr. Winters approached cautiously, gesturing towards the young woman. “May I introduce Miss Elizabeth Abergreen. Miss Elizabeth, this is Mr. Alexander Drake.”

  “Thank you, your Ladyship.” I bowed.

  She smiled at me, dimples forming in her cheeks.

  “I hate to see my brother bully around those below his station. If you are a guest of Colin’s, you are a guest of mine. Mr. Drake, welcome to Abergreen Manor. Can I have the servants get you anything?”

  “No, thank you, my lady. I have a pressing appointment with your late father. Mr. Winters, if you could lead me to his study.”

  The room was large, dominated by a stalwart desk, the walls framed with massive bookcases. I ran my fingers over the spines, looking at the titles, but as I am hardly a literary man, nothing jumped out at me. There was a fireplace, cold and scattered with blackened ashes. Hanging above the fireplace was a cavalry saber. I unsheathed it. It was clean and had a silvery edge to the tang, which was a fairly common—and in my opinion, foppish—affectation amongst the nobility. A small closet held a few changes of clothes. There were paintings on the walls: those of previous Lords Abergreen, a landscape of the estate, and several framed documents. These included the Lord’s diploma from Oxnard College and a certificate proclaiming him a member in good standing of the Royal Society for the Advancement of Knowledge.

  Two elements of the scene were amiss. First, the large, cushioned chair was knocked over. Second, a window—almost large enough to fill the entire wall—was sundered. Broken glass was on the floor, and what remained in the window cracked with spiderweb fissures.

  I took a few moments to draw in an impression of my surroundings, and then I withdrew some tools from my satchel. Mr. Winters watched in silence as I donned a pair of spotless white gloves.

  First, I turned my attention to the desk. There were a few framed daguerreotypes of recognizably Abergreen relatives, an inkwell and several pens, a letter opener, and some incoming correspondence. I skimmed the letters, but they seemed to be of no consequence. I searched the desk drawers but found nothing of note.

  Next, I turned my attention to the broken glass on the floor. I got down on my haunches, careful not to step on any glass, and picked up a few pieces with tweezers, examining them closely under a magnifying lens. I selected a few pieces and put them in a leather pouch.

  Finally, I turned my attention to the fireplace, which was thick with cold ash; clearly no fire had been lit here for several days. With the tweezers, I retrieved several samples. Then I turned to Mr. Winters.

  “The body was found on the lawn?” I gestured with a nod of my head toward the broken window.

  “Yes.”

  “So, he fell outward, then. Let us take a stroll.”

  On our way downstairs, I encountered Colin Abergreen, who grabbed me by the forearm, resisting my casual attempt to shake him off. He was a touch out of breath.

  “Sir Loxley-Birmingham is here.” He released his grip before I was forced to consider further defensive measures. “He will not appreciate you meddling in his crime scene.”

  “Delay him, please, if you would.”

  “Mr. Winters!” Colin Abergreen turned towards his plump minion. “Please go and offer the Inspector some tea and refreshment. Perhaps he will relish the chance to bathe after so long on the road.” Then Colin Abergreen and I hastened out to the back, where a section of the gardens had been gently roped off.

  Several bushes and flower beds had been flattened, in an area about a dozen feet in diameter. Intermingled with the snapped twigs and crushed lilacs was an inestimable quantity of broken glass. Dried blood clung to the leaves.

  I crouched again and examined the ground. In one patch of dirt I could clearly make out large paw prints, the mark of a Walder hound. There were prints of several different sizes, running the expected gamut for the breed, and one single, massive print, easily sixteen inches long. I shuddered at the thought of a beast so large.

  I collected a few more samples of the glass and pointed out the large print to Colin Abergreen.

  “Is there a hound on the estate that could leave such a print?”

  He shook his head, his complexion pale. The question was absurd, and the implications of what might have left such a print were sobering.

  “What the blazes is going on at my crime scene?”

  I spun around to see a man who could only be a Royal Inspector. Sir Loxley-Birmingham wore a pressed grey suit and smart bowler hat. Behind his steel-rimmed spectacles I saw eyes possessed with the twin virtues of perception and determination. His face was punctuated by an immaculately waxed and trimmed Vandyke with accompanying mustaches and sideburns. On his belt were a pistol and a thin fencing saber. He carried himself with the careful confidence of one who carries a sword not merely due to his birthright but as a man trained in its use.

  Colin stepped forward and made some nervous introductions as the Inspector regarded me with his steely gaze.

  “This is no place for amateurs or freelancers, Mr. Abergreen,” said the Inspector. “Please excuse myself and Mr. Drake. I require a word with your associate.”

  Colin Abergreen sheepishly excused himself, leaving me alone with the Inspector. He removed his gloves, stowed them in his jacket pocket, and then pointed an accusing finger at my chest.

  “I am the duly appointed agent of our Sovereign King in this investigation. I cannot stop Mr. Abergreen from employing whom he will, but I swear, if your presence complicates my investigation, I will have you arrested and tried for aiding and abetting a criminal act! Leave this in the hands of the professionals.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  I took a few steps away from the area of the prints and made a sweeping gesture, presenting the scene. Loxley-Birmingham continued to glare but said nothing. He approached the scene, crouched, and scowled. I’ve seen some real scowls in my day, and this was a scowl for the record books.

  “Strange prints. What do you suppose made them, guvnor?” I asked, cheekily.

  He snapped a quick glare in my direction.

  “I refuse to speculate until I have all the facts. Mr. Drake—”

  My only hints that anything was awry were a momentary stiffening in the Inspector’s posture and a flicker of his eyes to his left.

  Instinctively, I ducked and rolled, throwing myself to the ground behind several rosebushes, the thorns tearing into my clothes.

  The shots rang out but a moment later.

  Chapter 7

  BULLETS WHIZZED OVER OUR HEADS as Loxley-Birmingham drew his own pistol and dashed toward the shooter. I followed, ripping my way through a rosebush and taking several paces to my right to put distance between us. I spied a figure attempting to duck into the cover of the wooded grounds of the estate and lose us in the brush ahead.

  From my vantage, I could see Loxley-Birmingham closing in. He took care to remain in cover, dashing between the sparse trees. The gunman fired a few quick shots in our direction as he ran.

  For my part, I tried a different tack. Our assailant was fleeing over the grounds’ rolling hills. Sacrificing caution for speed, I kept to the lower ground and moved and prayed that I was staying out of the shooter’s sight lines.

  My gambit worked; my unwavering course allowed me to gain ground on my quarry. I crested a small rise, unable to stay out of sight any longer, and saw our mysterious shooter. I came at him from the side as he aimed at the Inspector, who had taken cover behind a low ivied stone wall. The Inspector snapped to a crouch and leveled his gun at the stranger.

  Three things happened at once: the Inspector fired, our assailant fired, and I fired.

  My bullet h
it the man in the arm. He kept his grip tight on his pistol even as he grimaced with pain, but his aim was ruined. His shot thudded into a tree just behind the Inspector. The Inspector’s bullet caught him solidly in the chest.

  The man collapsed to the ground. In an instant, we were both upon him. I placed both hands upon his chest and applied pressure in a futile effort to keep him alive.

  “Talk, damn you,” shouted the Inspector. “Who sent you?”

  The man gurgled a dying breath. I looked up at Loxley-Birmingham and shook my head.

  Who hired this man? Who was his target? Colin Abergreen, who had parted our company only moments prior? Sir Ernst Loxley-Birmingham, the realm’s most famed investigator? Or myself, the unlikely wild card?

  The voice of Loxley-Birmingham snapped me from my reverie. He was looking at the bullet lodged in the tree trunk.

  “Mr. Drake, would you like to tell me why the assassin was sent for you?”

  Chapter 8

  GEARS TURNED IN MY HEAD at the suggestion. Inspector Loxley-Birmingham regarded me with absolute confidence in his assertion.

  “How can you be so sure I was the target?”

  It was the Inspector’s turn to consider his remarks, and he took time before speaking.

  “Mr. Drake, my apologies for my earlier opposition to your involvement. It would serve the Crown if you would do me the service of taking my dictation as I perform the forensic analysis on the late Lord Abergreen. Do you accept?”

  Coming from anyone else, I would have been insulted, but the recent incident had given me a grudging respect for the Inspector. Besides, if I refused, I might find myself shut out of the investigation.

  “I would be honored.”

  Lord Abergreen’s body had been moved into one of the cellars, laid on its side upon a large wooden table. Judging from the corpse’s pallor, death was clearly no more than a few days gone. There were many gashes about the arms, legs, and torso, and obvious bruising in several locations. A dried crust of blood was the only thing covering his body.

  “Unusual for the corpse to be naked, don’t you think, Inspector?” I asked.

  “It’s possible the servants removed the tatters of whatever clothing remained after this”—he gestured broadly toward the wounds—“occurred.”

  “Wouldn’t the clothing have soaked up some of all that blood? My hunch says he was found this way.”

  “Your hunch is duly noted, Mr. Drake; however, I prefer my forensic method to be based on objective facts. If you are quite finished speculating on the late Lord’s state of undress, may we proceed with the investigation?”

  “But of course.”

  “My thanks. Let the record show the corpse is the late Lord Thomas Abergreen. Having previously met his Lordship, I am qualified to identify the corpse. Initial analysis shows multiple piercing wounds on the extremities, and bruising consistent with blunt trauma.”

  My hand sped along, copying his speech word for word. As he talked, he wiped away some of the caked blood with a moist sponge to get a closer look at the wounds beneath.

  “Mr. Drake, what do you make of the shape of these wounds?” he asked.

  “Bite marks, from a hound. They’re a touch small for a Walder hound.”

  “There could be mitigating factors there, but agreed. Let the record show that the corpse displays multiple bite wounds inflicted by a hound or hounds of indeterminate breed on the arms, legs, and torso. Some slight tearing of the ligaments occurred as a result.” He gently massaged the flesh with his fingers to feel the consistency of the dead tissue. “No major arterial damage seems to have been inflicted.”

  Loxley-Birmingham continued to work his fingers over the corpse, feeling the bone structure in several places, and invited me to do the same. Several of the ribs had fractured, one ankle was broken, and there was minor breakage in the feet and toes. We compared notes and I made a record of our findings. It was my unvoiced opinion that Thomas Abergreen seemed to have gotten off awfully light for a fall out of a third-story window and subsequent mauling by multiple Walder hounds.

  “Forensic analysis suggests that trauma and shock from the fall, combined with blood loss, resulted in nervous failure for the deceased. Circumstances of the fall and wounds merit further investigation. Mr. Drake, do you concur?”

  I arched an eyebrow and dutifully transcribed his diagnosis, even as I doubted it. I supposed it could have happened as the Inspector said, but I found myself skeptical. This man’s body simply should have been in worse shape. The trauma didn’t add up.

  “I couldn’t possibly speculate until all the facts are in,” I replied.

  Chapter 9

  I WAS CERTAIN THAT Loxley-Birmingham knew more than he was letting on, and my rebuff put an end to our short-lived professional relationship. I retired to go over my notes and collect my thoughts. I was flipping through the pages of my notebook when there was a knock on my door. It was Colin Abergreen.

  “I must insist that you join us for dinner, Mr. Drake.”

  I had expected that I’d be taking my meal in my own chambers, or perhaps with the servants. I cocked an eyebrow.

  “To what do I owe the honors?” I asked. “Is it my winning personality?”

  “By happenstance, we have thirteen guests at the table, and it is a rather inauspicious number. Rather than turn away a family member or honored guest, I thought it best to tender you an invitation.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And perhaps you might overhear something useful.”

  Our fourteen were Corth Abergreen, flanked by his wife, Milliford, and the Royal Inspector Sir Ernst Loxley-Birmingham; Ariella Abergreen, the wife of the deceased; the married daughter, Rochelle, and her husband, Lord Tinderhill; the unmarried but certainly eligible Miss Elizabeth Abergreen; Timothy Abergreen and wife Liselotte; Colin Abergreen, a bachelor; the deceased’s good friend Lord Rexford Nathaniel and wife Catherine; Pastor Mulgrew; and finally, myself.

  As I entered, I received a scowl from Corth Abergreen and a wink from Miss Elizabeth. Colin Abergreen gave me a smug nod, and I took my seat.

  I will not bore the reader with the particulars of the dinner. Pastor Mulgrew was invited to lead the family in prayer, and conversation touched on the tragedy of the deceased, the weather, and a foray into politics. Corth was an outspoken supporter of our sovereign, with some of his kindred questioning certain policies, such as tariffs recently levied on trade with the Continent, the most vocal being Timothy Abergreen, whose anti-tariff comments bordered almost on sedition. I was impressed by Lord Nathaniel’s ability to play peacekeeper and amiably moderate the discussion, as well as by the wisdom of many of those present in keeping their mouths shut and pretending the controversial subject had never been broached.

  We were several cups into our wine when the conversation turned to hounds, a topic I found much more palatable.

  “Father loved his hounds, you know,” said Corth Abergreen. “He may have never been terribly invested in the breeding, but he had such a connection with them! A toast! To hounds!” He raised his glass, spilling some wine.

  There was a general chorus of assents and approving remarks regarding hounds in general.

  “Thomas’s dogs came from a fine line,” said Lord Nathaniel. “Impressive stature, very loyal. They always made excellent hunting partners.” His Lordship paused, taking a sip from his wine and looking away. “They say a faithful hound knows when his master dies. How is the pack holding up?”

  Corth was unusually silent. It was Timothy Abergreen who responded, his tone severe. “Several of the hounds were wounded the same night Father died. They had to be put down.”

  My eyes locked with Sir Ernst Loxley-Birmingham’s. He hadn’t known about this either, and we both knew it was significant. If the hounds were a murder weapon, this could narrow down the search.

  “I’m sorry, but this is all too much for me.” Miss Elizabeth Abergreen rose from the table, distraught. “No, nobody get up; I just want to be alone.”

&n
bsp; I slid my chair back as she left, interrupting the Inspector as he was about to speak.

  “As I am only here by my host’s good grace and an unfortunate numerological coincidence, I think I must take my leave too, lest misfortune claim our present company.” Colin Abergreen began to protest. “No, thank you, Mister Abergreen,” I continued, “I would not want ill fortune to befall any of you, so it is only the honorable thing that I excuse myself. No one need encumber themselves on my behalf. Dinner was wonderful. Please have the dessert sent up to my room and convey my compliments to the chef.”

  Sir Loxley-Birmingham glared, which filled me with a perverse satisfaction. He played the polite representative of the Ministries and did not waver from his seat, but I saw the fires of curiosity and envy burning in his eyes.

  It was time to pay the Master of Hounds a visit.

  Chapter 10

  THE MASTER OF HOUNDS, Feargus Jocht, was a swarthy highlander with a large flowing mustache and several days of stubble. He heartily welcomed me into his abode, but he was possessed of a somber demeanor.

  “I take my meals with the hounds,” he said. “Only way I can get any good conversation around here.”

  The hounds were busily feasting on bowls of meaty slop, which looked significantly more appetizing than most of the meals I had eaten at the Stool and Rooster. Feargus had finished off most of a small hen and a plate of vegetables and was slowly savoring the rest. He offered me a seat.

  “Apologies for eating in front of ye, good sir,” he said.

  “I’m no sir. Feel free to carry on; I’m quite stuffed. I just wanted to ask about the hounds—how the pack is holding up.”

  “Aye, some of them are quite put out by it all—the more sensitive ones. You can tell a sensitive hound by his eyes. They’re smart enough to know his Lordship’s passed.” He walked over to one of the hounds and patted its wolfish head. “Course, ’twere it me who’d died, they’d all be inconsolable. But the Dark claims us all in time, it does, even hounds.”