City of Wolves

by Willow Palecek

  “I don’t work for you.”

  “Here you are, making me out to be some monster, holding this favor over your head, but it is not like that at all. I simply have an interest in your work. A noble Lord has been murdered; the Light demands that the killer be brought to justice. You cannot do your good works from behind bars.”

  “Sounds too good to be true.”

  “Perhaps a tithe would settle your conscience. It is my understanding you have come into possession of a number of coins bearing the face of King Sebastian. Out of my concern for your well-being—as well as my own appreciation for their historical significance—I am willing to absolve you of your burden in exchange for any of the coins you still possess.” He leaned back, running his fat fingers together. A jeweled ring adorned each one. “And if you refuse, I can just as easily have you locked back up again. Murdering a Lord is a very serious crime.”

  “So is extortion.” I scanned the frame of the carriage’s door for weak points.

  “Tsk, tsk. It is simply a tithe, my son, to secure your good graces with the Light, the Church, and the secular Ministries.”

  “I don’t work for you, not now, not ever again. I certainly won’t be paying for the privilege of doing so.” I wedged my body into the corner of the carriage and aimed a kick at the door frame. The door was solid but gave way, creating a path to freedom.

  The Vicar grappled me. I struggled; I was off-balance, and he was stronger than he looked. He wrapped his arms around me in a powerful bear hug. Try as I might, I could not escape his grip, so I employed the only tactic at my disposal. I pushed all my strength not into escaping but into forcing us both out the carriage door. We tumbled out of the carriage into the muddy street. I was fortunate: the Vicar landed under me, taking the brunt of the blow, and his grip was broken.

  His coachman halted the carriage; there were other carriages in front and behind us in the lane. In the dim light of early night, I spotted men training weapons on me.

  I turned and ran as the shots rang out behind me. As I dashed down an alley, a bullet grazed my shoulder; the pain was incredible but the damage insignificant. Behind me, there was the sound of shouting and loud footfalls.

  “I want his head!” boomed the Vicar with the voice he used on the pulpit to intimidate whole cathedrals with tales of ice and darkness.

  I did the only thing I could to get away: I jumped into the Ditch.

  Lupenwald’s major thoroughfare runs parallel to the Ditch, a long canal that splits the city and extends out towards the sea. The sewer systems, such as they are, feed all the city’s filth and excrement into the Ditch. No surprise that I should end up there sooner or later.

  Before I hit the surface, I took a giant breath. I swam through a river of Lupenwald’s shit, remaining under as long as I could possibly stand before coming up for a gasp of air. The stench was overwhelming, with a potency I could not have fathomed. My heart was racing and my shoulder burned.

  I could not return to my lodgings, as they would be watched. I managed to make it out to the harbor, where I bathed myself in the marginally cleaner waters.

  I had to see to my wound. Patch would be able to heal me, assuming he’d even let me in his shop. And after that . . . I ran over a mental checklist of the preparations I needed to make.

  I would be returning to Abergreen Manor.

  Chapter 16

  CLINGING TO THE OUTSIDE of the Abergreen Manor, I rapped on a third-floor window, quiet enough that only someone in the chamber beyond could hear. Thorny bushes loomed below, and I considered that a fall might render unto me a fate not entirely dissimilar to the late Lord Abergreen’s.

  After several minutes, I detected sounds of movement within. The thick curtains were cast back, revealing the bleary, sleep-filled face of Colin Abergreen. Locking my elbow into the window’s frame, I brought a solitary finger to my lips: Silence, please. As loudly as I dared, I whispered the words “Let me in.”

  Colin unlatched the window’s lock and slid it open.

  “What the blazes are you doing outside my window?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but he gestured wildly. “And is that my jacket you’re wearing?”

  “I felt my return to Abergreen Manor was best done discreetly, not being entirely certain whom I could trust. And yes, it is your jacket. Let me in and I will explain.”

  Wearily, Colin Abergreen backed away from the window, and I clambered in.

  “I believe I have deduced the exact means of your father’s death,” I said. “I need access to the corpse.”

  “I thought you examined it with the Inspector.”

  “Yes, but I now believe that the Inspector intentionally omitted vital parts of the forensic examination in an attempt to cover up for the killer.”

  “Even so, it’s impossible,” Colin said. “The funeral was last night. Father’s corpse has been buried.”

  “Yes, I know. You and I shall have to exhume him.”

  “What?”

  “How badly do you want to know what happened to your father?”

  He coldly regarded me for a long time before speaking.

  “Are those my trousers you’re wearing?”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed. “I would give anything.”

  Chapter 17

  I LURKED AT THE EDGE of the family cemetery and waited for Colin Abergreen. My patience was wearing thin. But he did finally arrive, a large cloak draped over him and a shovel in each hand. He grimly nodded at me in acknowledgment, and we approached the grave of the late Lord Abergreen.

  The plot was large, with an impressive tombstone, fenced perimeter, and statuary of cherubim. Colin stood frozen in place, transfixed by the solemnity of the scene. I ended his reverie by breaking earth, and he quickly recovered and joined me.

  “Please do not soil my clothes, Mr. Drake,” he said. “You still haven’t told me why you are wearing my jacket and trousers.”

  “Yes, well, I wanted to avoid a confrontation with Sir Loxley-Birmingham or anyone with untoward motives, so my intent was to approach the estate covertly. That meant evading your most alert sentries: the hounds. A magical oil spread over my body eliminates all odors. However, a good hound reacts as suspiciously to a scentless man as it does to one carrying an unfamiliar scent. Thus your clothing, to disguise myself in your aroma to your family guard dogs.”

  “And how did you come by my possessions?”

  “Oh, quite simply. I broke into your town house.”

  This remark left Colin Abergreen quite speechless. We dug in silence for many minutes before striking the sturdy mahogany lid of the coffin. It took but a few more minutes to clear enough of the dirt away to open it. Inside the velvet-lined coffin was the late Lord Abergreen, dressed in his finest suit.

  “Mr. Abergreen, did anything strike you as unusual about the condition your father was found in?” I undid the buttons first of Lord Abergreen’s suit, then of the white linen shirt below, the dirt on my hands soiling the clean fabric.

  “He was naked.”

  “Very good. What do you think that means?”

  “I suppose the killer stripped him of his clothes, perhaps part of—well, I don’t care to think of it.”

  “Luckily, I believe that was not the case.”

  Removing a large scalpel from my pocket, I made a careful incision down the corpse’s torso.

  “There were signs of extensive struggle in the bushes, but no scraps of clothing were found. I believe your father was naked when the event started. Rather unusual, don’t you think?”

  With a forceps, I pulled away the skin over the belly. Colin averted his eyes and turned away from the corpse. I rolled up my sleeves and began rummaging through Lord Abergreen’s entrails.

  “What about your father’s signet ring?” I asked. “I notice that it is not on his hand. Was it ever accounted for?”

  “I don’t believe it was. Do you suspect it was stolen?”

  “Not necessarily. Ah, here it is.”

&n
bsp; “The ring?” Colin asked.

  “No, that would be absurd. Behold!”

  Colin turned and barely suppressed a retch as he saw me withdraw the stomach from the corpse. Placing it in the top lid of the coffin—crude, but the only available receptacle—I readied the scalpel again and made a few artful incisions. I struck a match to illuminate my work.

  “Mr. Abergreen, what is the first thing you notice about all of this?”

  “That you are a callous degenerate.”

  “Correct but largely immaterial. I was referring to your late father’s anatomy.”

  “The inside of the stomach . . . why, it almost looks burned.”

  “Almost correct. These blisters are evidence of extreme burning, but the outside of the stomach is largely unmolested. And observe.” I returned to the body as a whole and cut through the esophagus, revealing the interior. “The throat shows similar but far less potent burns.”

  “What is your conclusion, Mr. Drake?”

  “Simple. Your father was poisoned. This is all I need from the corpse,” I said, wiping my hands on my borrowed shirt for want of a suitable alternative.

  “Let’s wrap up here, then, shall we?”

  I bent on one knee and laced my fingers together, and helped Colin Abergreen out of the grave. He was clearly not suited to such a task and rather ungracefully climbed out, making quite a mess of his own clothes in the process.

  “Do you need—” Colin was abruptly cut short as a shadowy form knocked him to the ground, out of my vision. I heard him cry out in shock.

  * * *

  Climbing out of a freshly dug grave is a situation few men prepare themselves for, one that is harrowing under the best of circumstances. I sank my fingers deep into the fresh earth and gripped hard to force a handhold. I pressed my body to the dirt wall to maximize friction and climbed up a hand-span at a time. There was the din of a struggle above, Colin now engaged in mortal combat with his assailant.

  I gained enough purchase to pull my head above the level of the pit and spied the confrontation. Colin was forced onto his back, and a man, facing away from me, leaned over him with one hand clutched on Colin’s throat. In the other he held a dagger, but he struggled for control of it with Colin.

  I pulled hard, lunged out of the pit, and rolled onto my side. The assailant turned toward me, and Colin let loose a kick. The man tumbled away but held on to his knife. We regained our footing almost simultaneously. He attacked with a series of knife swings, keeping me on the defensive.

  I was presently unarmed. My hatchet had been confiscated by the Inspectors, and in my haste to return to Abergreen Manor, I had not had time to acquire another weapon. I adopted a boxer’s stance, staggering my feet and using my forearms to protect my torso, stepping quickly to evade his attacks. In the dim starlight, I could make out few details about him, but the keen reflecting edge of the steel blade was unmistakable.

  He lunged. I sidestepped, countered with a quick jab, and bounced back, but he recovered and slashed my left forearm. I attempted a feint; he did not take the opening and instead adopted a strategy of steady, sweeping high slashes. A wide slash nicked me shallowly across the forehead. As he recovered from the swing, I charged forward and tackled him, throwing the both of us down into the open grave.

  The casket cracked under the impact. I ached but, through grim determination, spurred myself to action and punched him square in the face several times. I felt his nose and several facial bones break from my strikes, and my knuckles became slick with his blood.

  I pulled the man up to take a closer look at his face and recognized him instantly; he was one of the thugs who had accompanied Mr. Winters when we first met. He still had the wounds across his cheek, but with his smashed face, they were now clearly the least of his worries.

  “Who sent you?” I bellowed into his face as I shook him.

  He stared at me with fear. He opened his mouth and gurgled, spitting out blood.

  A shot rang out, and a bullet penetrated the man’s skull. What was left of him slumped over in my arms. I looked up, angry. Colin stood there panicked, smoking pistol held in both hands.

  “He was going to talk, you fool!”

  “I . . .” He trailed off and relaxed his grip on the gun. “I’m sorry. I was afraid.”

  “The situation was under control,” I said. “Now help me out of here.”

  He did so, and it was a much easier climb than when I had had to do so on my own.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “Have someone you can trust remove the body. You killed him in self-defense; I doubt you’d have any trouble, but you want to get him out of this grave. I’d help, but I need to gather the evidence to present my case. Who is still here at the manor?”

  “Just family. Most of the other guests have already left.”

  “Good. I want the family gathered so I can announce my findings. Get some sleep; we have a grand day tomorrow.”

  Chapter 18

  WITH COLIN’S HELP, I spent the morning putting together a few last pieces of evidence.

  Per my instructions, Colin had gathered his family in one of the manor’s parlors. In addition, Lord Rexford Nathaniel had joined them.

  They were tranquilly sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits when I entered. Opening a set of double doors for dramatic effect, I imagined I was quite the sight: haggard, unshaven, the clothes I had borrowed from the kennel master too large for me. There was a general outcry at my sudden arrival. I allowed it to play out, eventually motioning for calm. Across the parlor, another door opened, and Royal Inspector Sir Ernst Loxley-Birmingham emerged, accompanied by two officers of the law. He was also a sorry sight, his keenly groomed mustache and beard drooping and accompanied by at least five days of stubble. He glared at me with exhausted but smoldering eyes and began to clear his throat. With a self-assured smugness, I spoke first, commanding the attention of everyone present.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I know who killed Lord Abergreen!”

  “This man is a criminal and a charlatan, and is not to be trusted,” Inspector Loxley-Birmingham said as he pointed at me. “Officers, arrest this man.” It was, in my humble opinion, a rather unsporting response.

  “Wait.” The speaker was Lord Rexford Nathaniel. “I am curious what he has to say. Should naught come of it, do as you will, Inspector. But if he has gone to such lengths to be heard, I say we hear him out.” There were nods and murmurs of assent from the gathered Abergreens. With an exasperated sigh, Loxley-Birmingham nodded and motioned with an open hand to give me the floor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may, I have on my person a number of pouches, each containing a key piece of evidence in this case. I will, of course, be happy to turn my findings over to you, good Inspector.

  “First, let us establish a potential motive. Given the lack of a will, the most obvious conclusion is an inheritance dispute. Without a will, the division of the estate falls to tradition, which I understand favors the eldest but mandates a sinecure to other children. Without the will, however, there is no way to know who would have benefited the most from its destruction.” I produced a pouch from my coat and withdrew the scrap of paper Patch had recovered for me, “Fortunately, I have a sample of the will, reconstructed from the ashes by magic. It was found in his Lordship’s own fireplace, where it was burned.”

  There were confused murmurs and acrimonious glances between the siblings. I handed the paper to Corth Abergreen, who examined it and then handed it back.

  “Magic—will it stand up in court?” he asked.

  “Probably not, your Lordship. Fortunately, we are not in court. This is a simple examination of the facts. I imagine you’d all like to keep this a family matter.” He nodded soberly.

  “The killer burns the will and then throws his Lordship out the window to his death,” I continued. “Or perhaps the other way around; the order does not terribly matter. Consider the condition of his Lordship’s study. With the exception of the window
and a single chair, there was hardly a detail out of place, certainly no breakage or damage. The inkwell was intact, as were the bookshelves. Potential weapons of self-defense, such as the letter opener or cavalry saber, were untouched. This indicates that whoever attacked Lord Abergreen had the element of surprise.”

  I had them enraptured now, nodding along and hanging on my every word. I continued, pacing about the room.

  “Now, who can tell me what condition the deceased was found in?”

  Miss Elizabeth looked up at me, her eyes full of tears and a handkerchief in her hand.

  “He was dead,” she said, and then collapsed into a sob. Her mother moved to comfort her.

  “That is correct, my Lady, although not quite along the line of inquiry I had intended. Let me rephrase; what was the deceased’s state of dress when he was found?”

  “I understand he was unclothed,” said Lord Tinderhill, after looking to his wife for approval.

  “Thank you, my Lord. Now, the possibility exists that the assailant threw his Lordship out of the window, instructed the hounds to attack him, and then removed the deceased’s clothing. However, there were no scraps of cloth in the study or the yard, which suggests that his Lordship was as the Light made him when he was defenestrated. We know the assailant had the benefit of surprise. In my experience, being caught unclothed is a very surprising thing indeed—”

  Corth Abergreen rashly interrupted me at this point, standing up and pointing an accusatory finger.

  “Now, see here! If you are suggesting that my father was some sort of deviant, you have another think coming!”

  “No, my Lordship, I am in fact strongly suggesting that such is not the case. Given Lord Abergreen’s sterling reputation of moral character and the patent absurdity of the entire situation, one must take a new approach to the case. A traditional interpretation of the facts is fraught with peril. Let us reexamine the cause of death. Fortunately, Royal Inspector Sir Ernst Loxley-Birmingham performed the forensic evaluation and is present here. Tell us, Inspector, what did your findings indicate as the cause of death?”