Ghosts in the Snow

by Tamara S Jones

  Dubric sighed and rubbed his aching eyes. "By being completely certain and having the evidence to back us up."

  * * *

  The killer slipped a hand into the right side pocket of his leather coat. The stolen kidney remained a delightful weight, moist and still warm. It would make a perfectly lovely snack, and his mouth filled with saliva at the thought.

  As expected, his rooms were quiet and empty. Once he assured himself of his solitude, he emptied his pockets onto a low table and stripped to his skin, leaving his clothes where they fell. He cleaned himself, scrubbing his fingers until they shone. That done, he rinsed the kidney, dried it, and placed it upon a shining plate edged in gold.

  Humming happily, he threw his filthy, bloodstained clothes into his hearth, poking them into the coals until they caught aflame. Licking his lips, he picked up a wad of hair from the low table. He looked at Nansy's hair for a moment and crushed it in his fingers, remembering the loose weight of her head as he had cut off her hair. She had died easily, but loudly, screaming as her steaming guts fell onto the ground. But it was all over in an instant. He smiled. Perhaps her heart had burst with the surprise and shock. Not tidy, but certainly quick. An improvement to be sure, and it had brought him within sight of his goal.

  He sniffed her hair and strode to his bedchamber, pulling a pillow from its case. He unfastened the pillow's laced hem and slipped the hair inside, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of the other dead girls. He could identify each one, from the gypsy's spicy tang to the calming quality of the first milkmaid, each a distinct reminder of how he was nearly clean, nearly perfect once again.

  Back to the table, he looked at the kidney waiting on his plate, then fetched himself a fork, a knife, and a lovely glass of wine. As he poured the wine his stomach grumbled.

  He'd already decided how he wanted his breakfast.

  Raw. With a bit of salt. How perfect for such a salty girl.

  And after breakfast there would be one quick errand. He was so close now, nearly purified. Dubric must be reminded of how perfect he had become. How untouchable.

  Smiling, he picked up his knife and began to eat.

  * * *

  While Otlee and Dien tended to the examination of the newest murder scene and interrogation of any potential witnesses, Dubric dealt with the frightened, angry people of the castle, a battalion of fatigued guards, the physicians, the tenth and eleventh bodies, and Lord Brushgar.

  Lord Brushgar was not happy, had not been happy for days, and Dubric had nothing new to tell him.

  But Lord Brushgar did not seem to care what progress Dubric had or had not made. He only wanted resolution. "I want this stopped, now," he said as he loomed over his desk.

  "I realize that, sir," Dubric said and rubbed his eyes. The ghosts flickered, a few faded and disappeared, but most remained standing among the chaos of the office. Dammit, he needed to get some sleep before he simply dropped dead from exhaustion.

  Brushgar waved his hands in the air and knocked over a stack of rolled maps and scrolls. "Then stop it."

  "It is not that simple. He is somehow finding lone women—"

  "Then do not allow them to be alone."

  Dubric wanted to sigh his aggravation, but he refrained. "I have tried that. They panic, they hide, they disobey. Somehow he finds them. This morning he attacked a woman with two guards. Separating the women is not helping us, sir, it seems to be helping him."

  Brushgar slammed his palms on his cluttered desk. "Two guards? Who the bloody hell could attack two men like that? Who?"

  Dubric pulled out his notebook and flipped through. "I considered that question myself, sir. Logically speaking, everyone has been cut from very close range, so far, so I doubt our killer is an archer. They are not prone to utilizing close combat, after all."

  Brushgar rolled his eyes and spoke as if addressing a small child. "The soldiers are all wintering with their families, you fool. We only have six archers in the castle now and none of the footmen."

  Why did everyone insist on reminding him of things he already knew? "I realize that, sir. With the army gone, it severely limits the possibilities of who the attacker might or might not be. If we remove the six archers from the possibility list, that reasonably only leaves us five names, myself included. Assuming the culprit lives in the castle."

  "Five? That's it?" Brushgar waved his hand as if dismissing the problem. "Arrest them all and sort it out later."

  Dubric frowned and held out his book. "Perhaps you should look at the list, milord."

  Brushgar took the book from Dubric's hands. The page was filled margin to margin with close compact writing, details of the crimes, but the suspect list was reasonably easy to see. It was a list of eleven names surrounded by a box and separated from the other notes.

  Dubric knew Brushgar would recognize each and every name, and every man could be trusted, had been trusted, for summers. Brushgar shook the book at Dubric, his face turning red. "This is it? This is your list? Dammit, Dubric, my grandson's on here!"

  "I realize that, sir. So am I, all six archers, however doubtful they are—"

  Adjusting his spectacles, Brushgar read on. "Both of my squires? You've lost your mind."

  Dubric nodded. "Yes, milord, yours and mine. Eleven names total."

  Brushgar tossed the book on the desk amid the rubble. "Impossible. It's not any of these men."

  Dubric snatched his notebook back and flipped it open again. "Then who the bloody hell is it? Who else can do this? I have been tracking the bastard for nearly a phase now, and have no real leads other than he is quick, clever, and apparently invisible. It has to be one of these men. By reason, it has to. We are on very short supply of men trained to use weapons, men trained to kill, who are young or healthy enough to spend who knows how long out in the cold, waiting for a victim to walk by. And now he is attacking men, too. If it is not one of them, who else could it be? My other possible suspect spent the latter part of the night in gaol and he was securely contained during the latest murders. His apparent innocence leads me back to the same eleven damned names."

  Brushgar loomed over his desk again and his voice rumbled. "I tell you, it's someone else. It's not any of these men."

  Dubric reread the list for the thousandth time. "I know that, sir. They have all been watched. All have passed."

  "Good, then." His hands clasping over his ample belly, Brushgar sat and peered at Dubric.

  "No, milord, it is not good. It has to be one of them. Reason demands it. But it is not, not unless they had help, someone else who is killing, as well, and that does not seem to be the case, either. I have had every one of them followed and watched, myself included, by at least three independent pairs of eyes. All accounts have come back clean. So, if it is not myself, Risley, Dien, Fultin, Derre, Borlt, Egger, Quentin, Almund, Werian, or Ghet, then who in the seven hells is it?"

  He flipped back a couple of pages. "The only clues I have are that he is taking kidneys and hair, he is possibly a right-handed smoker, left Nella Brickerman and Lars Hargrove alive by choice, Lander Beckwith probably because of time constraints, might be using a shaving razor, is tall, seems to be eating what he takes, and is keeping some kind of list. No one has seen him, but one witness may have seen his shadow and claims he wears a cloak. He also is not afraid of armed men. Both Beckwith and Meiks were put down quickly, and Meiks died. I am missing something, an elusive connection, but try as I might, I cannot see it."

  Brushgar leaned back in his chair. It gave off an appreciable creak. "What about the girls? Any consistencies there?"

  Dubric flipped a few pages forward. "Some. All are unmarried and members of the service staff. All commoners by birth. Ages range from fourteen to nineteen summers, as far as I can tell. All shapes, sizes, hair and eye colors, although he does seem to have a slight preference for blue-eyed girls."

  "Nella is brown-eyed, if I recall," Brushgar said, tugging on his beard.

  Dubric nodded. "But so were Celese and Fy
tte."

  "Who's Fytte?"

  "The girl from the ale room, milord. I postulate that he is afraid of being seen and that the dark, preferably outside, suits him better. But then again, I do not know that, I am merely guessing."

  Brushgar thought for a moment and asked, "Of the likely men, whose name keeps turning up most often?"

  Dubric sighed and sat down. It seemed like it was the first time he had been off his feet in days. "Risley," he said, without softening the blow.

  Brushgar slammed his hand on the desk again. "Bisley? You have got to be joking! My grandson would never—"

  "Begging your pardon, milord, but someone's grandson is doing this," Dubric snapped. Sighing, he flipped through his book again. "He meets the necessary criteria and then some. He has not one razor but two—that he has shown me at least—and both are collapsible and small enough to conceal. Nella Brickerman lived— damning evidence right there—and he had Albin Darril's sword. He readily admits he has no alibi for the early murders." Dubric closed his little book, putting it away. "I hate to even consider him, and I know if I arrest him it will kill Heather and Kyi. They will never forgive me. But reason and evidence insist it has to be Risley."

  Brushgar's voice was soft and dry, as if he had trouble breathing. All the color had left his face. "Why haven't you arrested him, then?"

  Dubric sighed and shook his head. "Because, despite the circumstances piling against him, I have no definite proof. He has been watched nearly constantly for three days. Not once has he left his suite between bedtime and breakfast. I thought perhaps there was a concealed door inside, something to give him access to the courtyard without us knowing, but that does not appear to be the case, either. For two nights I had him woken at least four times a shift, and he was always there. On the second evening he left his door propped open throughout the night so my men could enter at will to see that he slept in his own bed." Dubric paused as his fingers gripped the chair. "Now he has acquired an alibi, as well, at least for last night's victims."

  Relief shone on Lord Brushgar's face like sunlight sparkling on water. "Good. What alibi is that?"

  "Nella Brickerman. Risley moved her to his suite yesterday, after she was attacked. She will vouch for him even if the rest of the castle wants to hang him." Surely even Brushgar knew rumors about Risley and the linen maid had become a gossip staple. Dubric forced his fingers to relax their grip, and he flexed his aching knuckles.

  Brushgar frowned. "She's one tough girl, I'll give her that. All she's been through. Stubborn little thing. My grandson seems to think he's met his match there."

  Dubric agreed. "Aye, sir." And the fact that they were smitten with each other complicated matters, as well, he thought.

  "But, since associating with her, Risley has become infatuated with the plight of the servants. He has demanded more privies, of all things, better rations, even improvements for their quarters. I fear she may be polluting his mind."

  More likely opening his eyes, Dubric thought, but said nothing.

  Brushgar pursed his lips and stared at Dubric. "So not only is my grandson falling into madness over the plight of the peasantry, you assume he's the killer. What's worse, you haven't made a lick of progress in finding another man responsible, even though you've been looking for over a phase. How do you intend to remedy these situations?"

  "I am not sure yet, sir."

  "That's not good enough." Brushgar leaned back in his chair and glared at Dubric.

  Dubric prepared to endure his lord's wrath.

  * * *

  With a right proper castigation and almost no sleep, Dubric trudged through the castle to his suite. He was dog tired, his feet hurt, his brain ached, and he felt no closer to catching the monster that had been preying upon his castle. Scores of people approached him, so many that they became a blur, and most accused him of favoritism. Everyone knew it was Risley, so why was he still free? And what about the uppity commoner whore? She knew something. And why wasn't he doing his damned job?

  Tired, grumpy, and just plain fed up, Dubric refused to answer.

  He had nearly reached his suite when Otlee ran to him, waving urgently. "The message, sir. From Aberville."

  Dubric yawned and accepted the miniscule twirl of parchment, breaking the seal.

  Trumble's message was tiny but perfectly legible.

  Lord Brushgar, seven razors last autumn. No other known Faldorrahns.

  "Sir? Is something wrong?"

  Other than that my life is collapsing around me and I fear this torture will never end? "No, of course not. Resume your duties."

  Otlee gave him a concerned glance, then hurried off.

  Cursing under his breath, Dubric read the message one more time before returning to Lord Brushgar's office. He did not bother to knock.

  He slammed the door behind him and stared at the old man behind the desk. "Is there a reason why you neglected to mention that you purchased seven shaving razors?"

  Brushgar stood, staring back. "Because my personal purchases are none of your concern."

  Dubric stepped forward and knocked nearly every paper, ornament, and artifact off Brushgar's desk. He spoke slowly, struggling to control his anger. "Every damned thing pertaining to this investigation is my concern. I told you, days ago, by the seven hells, less than a bell ago, that the weapon seemed to be a collapsible razor. Today, after I sent a rider two provinces south, I discover that you bought seven of the wretched things!"

  Brushgar blinked. "They were not 'wretched.' They were finely carved walnut, custom engraved with gilded inscriptions, and cost me nearly three hundred crown apiece." He sat and leaned back in his chair. "Such fine gadgets would not be used to murder servants, for Goddess's sake."

  "Where are they?"

  Brushgar rolled his eyes. "I have no idea. I gave them away as gifts at the conclusion of the fall festival, so I would assume the recipients have them. I certainly do not."

  "Who? Damn you! Who did you give them to?"

  Brushgar shrugged. "I can't recall."

  "You what?"

  Brushgar leaned over and grabbed a pile of papers and gadgets. "I can't recall. I gave them all away, remember? All but the one I kept."

  Dubric let his breath out in a rush and staggered back, rubbing his eyes. "You expect me to believe that you dispersed nearly two-thousand-crowns' worth of custom-built razors and cannot remember who you gave them to?"

  "Perhaps I gave them to Talmil, Berde… maybe Knude. I can't possibly remember for sure." Brushgar dropped the armload of mess on his desk. "I have more important things to do with my time than discuss this further. You will immediately cease this needless argument." He took a breath and stared Dubric in the eye. "This matter is closed. Good day." He nodded once, then leaned over to grab another armload of mess.

  Dubric cursed and left Brushgar's office. Six, perhaps seven razors, he thought. Damn. Who? Who would know where they were?

  He stomped past Josceline while his fatigued mind raced. Nigel would not deliver the gifts himself. That would be beneath him. Who would he assign the task to? Who would he trust with such valuables?

  Frantic, he looked up the main stairs. Would Lord Brushgar's herald have any insights? Would Beckwith still be awake after this morning's drama and his injury? Dubric tried not to get his hopes up as he hurried up the stairs and to the families' wing.

  Beckwith answered the door freshly washed and wrapped in a bathing robe, his head bandaged. He blinked in surprise and backed away from the door, beckoning Dubric to enter. "Milord?"

  Dubric pulled out his notebook and did not bother with niceties. "Several moons ago, during the fall festival, did you happen to deliver some gifts for Lord Brushgar?"

  "The razors? Of course, milord. All six, precisely as requested."

  Dubric struggled to remain calm. "Do you remember whom you delivered them to?"

  Beckwith paused, tapping his chin, then he turned and walked away. "I don't trust my memory after all this time, especially
after today, but I do keep records of such things. One moment."

  Dubric waited at the door while Beckwith opened a drawer and rooted through some papers. He returned with two bound stacks and tucked one under his arm while he slipped the twine from the other. "The fall festival, correct?" As Dubric nodded, he flipped to the lower part of the stack, then slowed his search. He frowned, shook his head, then dropped the stack on the floor.

  Releasing the twine from the second stack, he searched through three sheets, then paused, smiling. "Here we are, milord. All six names, checked and initialed. They were beautiful razors, milord, and all were happy to receive them." Beaming, he handed Dubric the paper. It contained a list of names written in Brushgar's hand, each crossed out and initialed by Beckwith with a date and time beside each.

  Dubric nodded his thanks and read the list:

  Sir Talmil, Sir Berde, Sir Knude, Risley Rotnlin, Friar Bonne, Head Accountant Jelke

  "Has someone complained of an error in delivery?"

  "No," Dubric said, looking up again. "May I keep this?"

  Beckwith bowed, holding his bandaged head. "Of course, milord. I am delighted to help."

  Dubric folded the list and put it in his notebook. "How is your head? Did you require stitches?"

  "Oh no, milord. Apparently it is more of a scrape than a gash and doesn't require stitching." Beckwith shrugged and rubbed the back of his head. "Rather painful, though."

  Dubric thanked the herald, then went to find Dien.

  * * *

  As Friar Bonne shoved his bulk from Lars's chair, Otlee glanced at Dubric, then initialed the friar's testimony and set aside the sheet of paper. "How many more, sir? So far their responses have been the same."

  "Just one," Dubric replied. He had given Dien a list of six names, instructing him to send in each man in that particular order, preferably with his razor.

  Sir Knude and Sir Berde were both of ailing health, and both had insisted that their razors were treasured gifts that had never left their possession. Bonne had used his, remarking often about how well it kept an edge, but his razor was pristine, and bore no signs of being used as a murder weapon. Jelke's razor had broken—he had inadvertently dropped it on a stone floor, popping loose the spring mechanism—and Sir Talmil's razor was coated with layers of soap scum and stubble.