The Golem of Solomon's Way

by Jon Messenger

  “I don’t rightly know,” Simon said as he knelt beside the scrubbed bloodstain. “If I did, I wouldn’t have needed to come at all, would I?”

  The apothecary frowned and took up a position near the sawhorse, watching for passersby. He would have little to offer the focused Inquisitor, other than a man-sized obstacle around which Simon would have to move. He was far better suited for standing at the entrance to the alley, watching for curious bystanders or passing constables.

  Simon gingerly touched the bloodstain, but it was already dry. He would never admit as much to Luthor, but Simon wasn’t sure what he’d find in his investigation. Two days had passed since the murder, and the ground had clearly been trampled during what he assumed was a bungled exploration for clues by the constables. Luthor often chided Simon for the Inquisitor’s clear derision toward the constabulary, but Simon thought his feeling justified. There was no love lost between the two organizations—though not as much animosity as between the Inquisitors and Pellites, mind you—and Simon always felt better suited for investigating crimes, regardless of whether they were magical or mundane in nature.

  There were footprints throughout the area, though a quick observation noted at least a half dozen different sizes and shapes. Most were easily identified as the shoes of constables. Despite their different sizes and widths, the constables wore police-issued shoes with identical treads. Ignoring those, Simon sought the other footprints. A smooth-soled shoeprint was visible at the edge of the bloodstain, pressed into the mud and muck. It was a well-worn heel, matching an equally well-worn toe. Harboring a guess, Simon assumed those shoes belonged to Detective Sugden. Simon had marked the man’s attire as comfortable during their past couple encounters, and he seemed the type that would wear shoes until they were unserviceable.

  A few steps deeper into the alleyway, Simon found half a footprint, a long, narrow shoeprint formed when someone inadvertently stepped into the edge of the blood. It was dried the same brown as the smear behind Simon. Extrapolating the length of the shoe based off its toe print, Simon estimated the man’s height and build. He frowned as he realized his description matched perfectly that of Doctor Casan, which only made sense. The doctor’s notes placed him at the scene, and he would have been close enough to the body to inadvertently step in the blood.

  Simon sighed as he stood. Exploring the crime scene had provided no new details, certainly nothing that he could use to further his own line of inquiry. He started to step back toward Luthor when a pile of rubbish against the alley wall caught his eye. Simon paused and turned toward it, noting that much of the refuse had been crushed near its center.

  Pulling a loose piece of paper from atop the pile, Simon smiled as he revealed the coarse outline of yet another footprint. His smile faltered, however, as he realized the sheer size of the imprint. It was wider than two of the detective’s prints were and longer than a cubit. If his estimations were correct, the size placed its owner at nearly nine feet in height and weighing well over three hundred pounds. A beast of that size couldn’t be human, at least not any sort of human with which Simon was familiar.

  “Luthor,” Simon said. “Come here. I think I’ve found something that may require your expertise.”

  The apothecary seemed genuinely surprised as he stepped into the alleyway. Simon showed him the indentation; for that was what it was, since no proper footprint would have held amidst the garbage. Luthor’s eyes widened in surprise as Simon described the stature of the creature that would have left a print of that size.

  “Have you come across anything of this magnitude in your studies?” Simon asked.

  Luthor shrugged. “I’d have to peruse my books, sir, but it doesn’t strike me as something familiar. Are we assuming this to be our killer?”

  Simon paused, hesitant to say yes. It was clearly something beyond normal human ken, but it was hard to associate something of that size with the surgical precision with which the limbs were removed. Great size and great intellect weren’t usually found in a shared body.

  “I can’t say for certain,” Simon finally replied. “A creature of this size seems more in line with the limbs that appeared ripped from the previous bodies.”

  “A creature that learns, perhaps?” the apothecary offered. “One of brutish strength in the beginning, but one which has learned a far greater technique over time?”

  “Mere speculation, Luthor, something I try my best to avoid. I’d prefer the facts speak for themselves.”

  “Well, sir, we don’t have much in the way of facts. One overtly large footprint hardly makes the basis for an investigation.”

  Simon smoothed his narrow moustache as he thought. “You’re correct, of course. If we intend to investigate this further, and I do, mind you, we’ll need the police reports.”

  Luthor sighed. “Not this again, sir. We were damned lucky that the good doctor shared his findings with us. We would never have made the first connection without it, or realized the extent of the crimes. The rest of the reports, however, will not be easy to come by.”

  “Of course they won’t,” Simon said, standing. “Which is precisely why we need an official request through the Inquisitors.”

  “Absolutely not,” the Grand Inquisitor said. “There is nothing you’ve described to me that warrants Inquisitor involvement in what is otherwise the constable’s investigation.”

  “Sir, I can’t overstate the sheer size of the footprint,” Simon replied as he sat in the chair opposite the Grand Inquisitor, within the older man’s chambers. “It was monstrous, and I am certain the constabulary overlooked that crucial piece of evidence.”

  “Crucial piece of evidence?” the elder statesman incredulously said. “Do you hear yourself, Simon? It was a footprint—hardly a smoking gun or fresh blood on someone’s hand. Besides, investigations like this one are outside your scope of responsibility, especially as you’re assuming the role of my apprentice once more.”

  Simon sighed and leaned back in the chair. “Meaning no offense, sir, but you and I both know I’m not meant for duties like these. I’m a field investigator and a damned good one to boot. I should be out in the field, riding airships to ports unseen just to investigate magical maladies the likes of which would never be published in newspapers for fear of widespread panic in the kingdom. That’s what I’m meant to do, not sitting behind a desk sorting through papers, reading about the wondrous exploits on which everyone else in the organization is going.”

  The Grand Inquisitor laced his fingers before his face and frowned, his trimmed, white beard sagging from the effort. “You have successfully demeaned everything I do for this organization. If that was your intent, then well done.”

  Simon grew pale. “Forgive me, sir, I meant no disrespect. I just can’t fathom why the king would wish me out of the field.”

  “He’s recognized your potential, Simon. We all have.”

  “I did what any Inquisitor would have done in a similar situation.”

  The Grand Inquisitor leaned forward and placed his hands on his desk. The desk lamp cast strange shadows across his face. “Yet none of them did, Simon. You did. Time and again, it was you who discovered plots against the crown and ended them with all efficiency. Besides, I’m not entirely convinced others would have done what you did. It was a stroke of genius to summon the Order of Kinder Pel into Whitten Hall. I think most other Royal Inquisitors would have been blinded by their obvious biases. Most others probably would have been dead as a result.”

  “All the more reason to keep me in the field,” Simon pleaded. “That sort of brilliance is exactly what we need in leaders conducting field investigations, not directing from an armchair, no offense meant once again.”

  The older man furrowed his brow, but his frown became a faint smile. “I’m not entirely convinced you aren’t meaning offense. However, the king has spoken. Our discussion here is moot, since none of our voices can supersede his word. My hands are tied.”

  Simon huffed as he leaned furthe
r into the chair, hoping to disappear completely through it and vanish from sight out the other side. The Grand Inquisitor watched his protégé with genuine sympathy.

  “What would you have me do, Simon?”

  Simon bit his lip as he considered his answer. “If you’re to take me out of the field and chain me to a desk—”

  “No offense meant, I’m sure,” the Grand Inquisitor chided.

  “—Then let this be my last investigation,” Simon concluded. “The evidence I’ve uncovered says that we are dealing with a serial killer and, if the size of the print is to be believed, one of superhuman stature. Everything about this lends itself to a supernatural phenomenon. Let me conduct a proper investigation into this, first and foremost by retrieving the police files. When it’s all concluded, I promise you I will return here, ready to assume my duties.”

  “You promise you’ll return willfully, and not kicking and screaming like an insolent child?”

  Simon shrugged. “I make no such promises, but one way or another, I will return.”

  The Grand Inquisitor smiled as he pulled a sheet of blank paper from a stack. He retrieved a pen from his desk and began quickly writing. Simon could read the elder man’s immaculate scrawl, requesting copies of the files be released to the Royal Inquisitor representative, one Simon Whitlock. When the note was finished and the ink sufficiently dried, the Grand Inquisitor blotted it once more before folding it succinctly. He raised the globe on his lamp, exposing the dancing flame within. The fire began melting a stick of red wax that the Grand Inquisitor held above it. Simon had to assume that was the only reason his mentor kept a true lantern on his desk, rather than one of the newer electric commodities. A dab of wax sealed the letter shut. The older man pressed a signet ring into the wax, forming its unbroken seal.

  “This should get you what you need,” the elder stated, “but once this is completed, I expect to see you returned with all haste. Am I understood?”

  Simon smiled and took the note. “Perfectly, sir, and thank you.”

  He retrieved his top hat as he left the Grand Hall, heading unerringly toward the Solomon’s Way police station.

  The taxi rolled jerkily to a stop outside the station. Simon climbed out, handing a coin to the driver before closing the door behind him. Despite his residence in the Upper Reaches, Simon was becoming all too familiar with the nuances of the Way. He walked through the front doors of the station without pause and approached the desk sergeant.

  The sergeant looked up and nodded politely to the Inquisitor. “If you’re here to file a complaint or report a crime, please take a seat and an officer of the law will be with you momentarily.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not,” Simon replied. “I’m here to see Detective Sugden.”

  The sergeant narrowed his eyes as he looked Simon over. The Inquisitor looked slightly out of place in Solomon’s Way, especially during daylight hours. His attire was more attuned to a man from the Upper Reaches, which, of course, he was. It was readily apparent from the sergeant’s expression that the man thought the very same thing.

  “Wait here, sir, and I’ll bring the detective at once.”

  The desk sergeant walked into the bull pit, weaving his way through the multitude of desks and constables moving this way and that. Simon watched him for a moment before losing interest and turning away, choosing instead to find a seat against the wall. The chairs were uncomfortable, very likely on purpose to keep people from loitering in the station’s cool interior.

  After a brief moment, the detective appeared at the desk. “Royal Inquisitor, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to our humble station?”

  Simon stood and pulled a note from his inside pocket. The seal of the Grand Inquisitor stood out on the back of the parchment, still unbroken. He walked to the desk and handed it to the detective.

  “I have need of your police files pertaining to the murders in your district,” Simon explained.

  Sugden furrowed his brow as he took the note. “You’ll have to be more specific, of course. There have been quite a few murders in Solomon’s Way, as one would expect. Mix enough alcohol with an uncouth sort and you’re bound to have some violent disagreements.”

  “Not to worry, Detective, I can give you a list of the names.”

  The detective didn’t seem any more pleased that the Inquisitor had such intimate knowledge of the crimes within Solomon’s Way. He stared at Simon for a long moment before glancing down at the letter. Slipping his finger under the red wax seal, he slid it along until the seal broke with a snap. The detective unfolded the letter and quickly read the Grand Inquisitor’s official request for assistance.

  “Everything seems in order,” Sugden said slowly. “You say you know the particular cases that you’ll need?”

  “Indeed, I do,” Simon said with a brazen smile.

  A figure climbed the steps to the Inquisitor’s right, emerging from the basement in which Simon and Veronica had examined Gloria’s remains. The Inquisitor glanced over and noticed the familiar doctor, who looked stricken at the sight of Simon talking to the detective. Casan blanched and visibly bit the inside of his lip as he looked back and forth between the two men.

  For a moment, Simon was confused as to the doctor’s obvious consternation. As he quickly approached, however, realization dawned on Simon. Detective Sugden likewise glanced curiously as Casan approached.

  “Are you well, Doctor?” the detective asked. “You look pale and clammy. I hope you’re not coming down ill.”

  “No, nothing of the sort,” Casan stammered as he stopped beside the two men. “Inquisitor, what brings you back to the police station?”

  Simon smiled in what he hoped was a disarming way. “Nothing involving you, I’m sorry to say, Doctor. The Royal Inquisitors are requesting the crime scene reports pertaining to a string of murders within your district.”

  Casan noticeably relaxed. “Including your friend’s death, I presume?”

  “Exactly so,” Simon replied. “It seems there have been a string of similar murders within Solomon’s Way, murders that are potentially connected to supernatural occurrences.”

  Detective Sugden appeared cross. “Come again? We run a tight ship here, Inquisitor, and I’d be the first to know if there were supernatural murders occurring within the Way.” The detective’s face flushed, and his voice rose both in tone and volume as he continued. “In fact, were there to be such murders, it would be this station that would file a report through the Royal Inquisitors. I would damn well not be notified by someone from outside, coming to my station and giving me what for.”

  Simon arched his eyebrow, refusing to rise to the detective’s obvious ire. “No one is giving you what for, Detective. I’m merely making an official inquiry, which, as I’m led to believe, is the only way to receive police reports. My information may be unfounded. If that’s the case, then you and the rest of the constables have little to worry about.”

  Sugden glared at the Inquisitor before his gaze drifted toward Casan. “Where, pray tell, are you receiving such information?”

  “My dear detective,” Simon said, drawing the man’s attention away from the nervous doctor, “you more than anyone appreciates the necessity of the privacy of informants.” Simon also glanced toward Casan. The doctor wouldn’t need Simon pointing fingers. He looked so pale and sickly that even a detective of mediocre skills like Sugden would notice something amiss. “Perhaps you could lead me to your files and we can begin pulling records?”

  The detective clearly looked unhappy but after another look at the formal request from the Grand Inquisitor, he conceded and pointed toward the back of the room. “If you’d come this way, Inquisitor.”

  Simon glanced again toward Casan and smiled softly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Doctor. Perhaps you should go home and convalesce. The detective’s right; you look awfully sickly today.”

  Casan seemed offended as well but quickly nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Nod
ding politely, Simon walked around the sergeant’s desk and followed the detective toward the back of the bull pit.

  “Absolute rubbish,” Simon said as he threw one of the files down on his desk.

  Luthor leaned back in his chair, avoiding the inevitable spread of paperwork from the discarded file. “I take it you’re unhappy with the reports?”

  Simon paced around his sitting room, his hands placed firmly on his hips. “It’s as though the constabulary are actively trying to retard our investigation. Who writes this tripe? A primary school child with a set of finger paints could create a more accurate report.”

  He walked back to the table and sorted through the discombobulated paperwork that was strewn over the table. “‘No evidence of fingerprints at the crime scene’,” the Inquisitor read from one sheet before flipping to a second. “‘Crime scene was disturbed before the arrival of the constabulary, making collection of footprints impossible’. There’s not a single mention of the oversized footprint we found at Gloria’s murder scene.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t see it, sir, or perhaps it wasn’t present at the other crime scenes. It was covered and we might have overlooked it, had it not been for sheer luck on our part.” Luthor perused a file in his hand and could only offer a noncommittal shrug. “This crime scene wasn’t found until nearly two days after her death. I’m not trying to be inflammatory, sir, but trampling of the crime scene is entirely possible, especially by a well-intended citizen who discovered the bodies.”

  “Rubbish,” Simon repeated as he collapsed into his chair.

  “You had hoped for something a bit more definitive, sir?” Luthor asked.

  “I had hoped. I knew the chances were slim, but I still hoped. I know Matilda is with Veronica and she’s safe, but it would put my fiancée’s mind at ease were I to come to her and tell her I’d solved the murders.”