The Golem of Solomon's Way

by Jon Messenger

  “If you leave, you’re doing so against my expressed recommendations,” the doctor yelled after them.

  Mattie, to her credit, suppressed the urge to visually express exactly what she thought about the doctor. By the time they made it down the stairs, which took far longer than it should have, there was already a taxi idling by the curb beyond the hospital’s front doors. Luthor helped her into the seat even as the constable politely held the door for them both. When Luthor was seated within, comfortably beside Mattie, the guard closed the door and patted the roof of the automobile. With a jerk, it sped away from the whitewashed building, driving hurriedly toward the Upper Reaches.

  The ride was blissfully quick and smooth, ending as the taxi pulled to a stop before Luthor’s townhouse. As before, the apothecary helped her from the car. He could see her expression of dread as she noticed the six steps leading to his front door. Any other day, the steps would have been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Today, however, they appeared as nothing short of a mountain that must be scaled, pain and discomfort be damned.

  With great effort, they reached the landing and Luthor unlocked the door. As Mattie stepped inside, the apothecary let his gaze drift to the neighboring townhouse. No lights shone through the windows, though the heavy curtains were drawn. The building’s façade had an overwhelmingly uninviting appearance, despite Luthor knowing that his mentor was at home.

  He followed her inside, closing the door behind him. Mattie was standing transfixed in the foyer, staring in horror at the staircase leading to the second floor and her bedroom. A faint whimper escaped her lips at just the thought of climbing more steps today.

  “Can you not simply magic me up the stairs?” she pleaded.

  “If I had that in my repertoire, I most certainly would.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t climb stairs anymore. Not today. Perhaps tomorrow, but even then I make no promises.”

  Luthor glanced into the sitting room, to the cushioned couch. “Would you accept mediocre sleeping arrangements today? The sofa is surprisingly comfortable.”

  Mattie smiled. “Bring me a pillow, a blanket, and a hot cup of tea and I think we might have come to some sort of an accord.”

  Once Mattie was comfortable on the couch and had finally fallen asleep, Luthor quietly left the townhouse and walked next door. The windows were still dark, even in the narrow slats between the curtains. Luthor knocked loudly, loud enough to raise the dead, but he heard nothing from within. Simon didn’t yell out for him to go away, as Luthor had presumed he would, nor did he hear the shuffling of furniture as Simon stood to check on his unannounced visitor.

  If Simon was home, and Luthor had no reason to doubt that he was, he clearly had no interest in being disturbed. Begrudgingly, Luthor turned away and returned home.

  By the time Luthor came down the steps the next morning, Mattie was already awake. The sound of sizzling bacon came from the kitchen, mixing with the harsh whistle of the teakettle. The apothecary rounded the corner and found Mattie standing before the stove, already dressed for the day. Gone were her fancy clothes, the corset and wide skirt traded for a simple button-down shirt and slacks.

  “I didn’t expect to find you up,” he remarked as he entered the kitchen.

  “Well, I seem to be feeling much better today,” she said, turning toward him with a knowing smile. “Like the doctor said, it’s miraculous.”

  She looked considerable better than she even had the day before. A few bruises remained along the side of her face, and she opened her jaw gingerly as she spoke but most of the swelling had receded. The deep gashes on her cheek and brow had begun to close, leaving behind puckered scabs that would turn to scars within a day or two. Luthor frowned, hating that even simple scars would mar her face, leaving constant reminders of her attack, but he was thankful for her werewolf physiology. A normal woman would have most likely died in the alleyway that night. If she had survived, she would be bedridden for weeks as she recovered from her wounds. Mattie, to the contrary, was walking about the very next day.

  “I took the liberty of cooking breakfast,” she said.

  “I can’t thank you enough for it,” Luthor replied. “I’m famished. I don’t believe I ate anything at all during the day yesterday. My stomach seemed turned after…” He stopped himself, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging pregnant in the air.

  Mattie shook her head. “We seem so intent on not stating the simple facts. Veronica is dead and, to a degree, I’m to blame.” She held up her hand, silencing any objection. “I couldn’t keep her safe, which was my task. I accept that blame, but let’s not pussyfoot around the subject any longer.”

  Luthor nodded and took the plate of food that she offered. The aroma was enough to make him temporarily, and willingly, forget their conversation. She led them from the kitchen and they sat at the small table, enjoying their meal.

  “Did you speak with Simon yesterday after I fell asleep?” Mattie asked, wincing as she sat, straining the still-healing ribs. “I heard you leave but lacked the energy to ask where you were going. I must have been completely asleep by the time you returned.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Luthor replied, taking a bite of his bacon. “I knocked on the door and am pretty sure he was at home, but he refused to answer.”

  She shrugged. “His behavior seems a bit childish, ignoring his friend.”

  “Simon’s a private man under the best of circumstances. Now he’s mourning his loss as he does best, alone in the darkness.”

  “You don’t mourn alone,” Mattie explained, wagging a strip of bacon at him for emphasis. “You find your friends, you pour yourselves drinks, and you celebrate their life.”

  Luthor cringed. “I’m pretty sure that he’s doing all those things, save spending time with friends.”

  Mattie had set down her food and lifted her cup of tea but paused. “Do you think he’s all right, drinking alone in the dark? Any scenario that begins that way usually ends poorly for all involved.”

  “I’ve seen him drink men twice his size under the table,” Luthor replied unapologetically. “Let’s allow him to mourn in peace for a bit, and then we’ll invade his privacy once more.”

  Mattie took a sip before setting down her cup. “Celebrating his drinking prowess is not a very glowing endorsement of his state of mind.”

  “Perhaps not,” Luthor replied absently. “I know this is a delicate subject, but if you feel up to it, I need you to recount the events in the alleyway.”

  Mattie frowned. “You certainly know how to ruin a breakfast.” She sighed. “Very well.”

  Luthor stared out the window as Mattie described the night of Veronica’s death. Her words droned on as Luthor’s mind wandered to thoughts of his friend. He agreed wholeheartedly with Mattie. Simon drinking alone in his townhouse was a potentially dangerous situation, but there was little to be done. If Simon wanted to ignore the world for a day or so as he coped with the loss of his fiancée, who was Luthor to try to dissuade him? The Inquisitor would come to his senses eventually, and everything would return to the way it had always been between them.

  “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Mattie curtly asked.

  Luthor arched an eyebrow as he glanced toward the irate woman. “Every articulate word, but forgive me all the same, my dear. My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Continue ignoring me and I’ll send your head to join your thoughts.”

  He smiled but glanced back out the window. Parked in front of Simon’s walk, there was a black automobile idling. Concentrating, he could hear its engine rumbling and could just make out a driver sitting in the shadows within. Luthor furrowed his brow as he gently moved aside the curtain.

  “What is it?” Mattie asked, craning her neck to look out the window as well.

  “There’s a car parked in front of Simon’s door.”

  “What do you suppose they want?” she asked.

  Luthor released the curtain and turned toward her with a frown. “Wel
l, I haven’t the foggiest, now do I? Clearly, someone wishes to speak to the Inquisitor.”

  “He won’t answer for them either,” she replied, taking another sip of tea. “If he wouldn’t open the door for you, then certainly he wouldn’t open the door for a stranger.”

  “Perhaps not, but they certainly seem persistent,” he remarked. “Maybe I should go and see who is paying Simon a visit this early in the morning?”

  “Do you think that’s wise? Perhaps Simon asked someone to come.”

  “Then he’d just be ignoring me and that’s rude,” Luthor chided as he stood. “I think I’ll go see what this is all about. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He leaned forward and kissed Mattie on the cheek before walking toward the door. Taking his bowler from the hat stand, he placed it atop his head as he opened the door. The morning was bright and clear, though the faint haze of smog hung in the air above him. He stepped onto his landing and glanced to the townhouse next door. A young man—clearly a messenger by his formal attire—stood by the door with a folded parchment in hand.

  “You, boy,” Luthor said, catching the messenger’s attention. “What’s your business with Inquisitor Whitlock?”

  The boy looked flustered, his hand hovering inches from the door as he prepared to knock again. “I have an urgent letter from the Grand Inquisitor. Do you know if the Royal Inquisitor is at home?”

  “Are his lights off and curtains drawn?” The boy nodded, and Luthor sighed. “He must be away on official business. I’m Luthor Strong, Inquisitor Whitlock’s partner. Any correspondence can be left with me. I’ll be sure to pass it along to the Inquisitor upon his return.”

  The messenger seemed unsure, going so far as to glance toward the awaiting car parked on the curb. “I was told specifically to deliver this to Inquisitor Whitlock.”

  “I’ve already informed you that I can take custody of the letter,” Luthor said with far less patience. “Bring it to me and be gone.”

  Hesitantly, the boy glanced once more at Simon’s door before hurrying down the steps. He came around to Luthor’s walk, and the apothecary met him halfway down his front steps. The messenger held out the note, which Luthor gladly took from him. The front of the letter was emblazoned with the red wax and official seal of the Grand Inquisitor.

  Fishing around in his pocket, Luthor withdrew a silver coin and begrudgingly handed it to the boy. Luthor had far less disposable income than Simon and every coin spent offended his frugal sensibilities. Giving the messenger a silver coin, however, ensured the boy left with no questions asked and would, presumably, tell his boss that the task had been completed satisfactorily.

  With a tip of his hat, the boy returned to the automobile. As soon as his door was closed, the vehicle pulled away from the curb and sped down the street. Luthor watched it leave for a moment before glancing down at the note in his hands. Simon would be infuriated if he discovered that Luthor had stolen a letter addressed to him, but the apothecary was sure Simon was in no condition to handle any such correspondence.

  He slipped back into the townhouse, closing the door firmly behind him. No sooner did he hang his hat on the rack than Mattie addressed him.

  “Who was his visitor?”

  “A messenger, with a note directly from the Grand Inquisitor.”

  Mattie frowned. “Is it wise to have taken that letter yourself?”

  Luthor was still looking at the Grand Inquisitor’s seal as he walked back to the table. “I was just asking myself that very thing. The immediate answer is yes, as I worry about Simon’s state of mind at the moment, though I think I might very well change my answer in the foreseeable future.”

  “Roughly around the time Simon discovers what you’ve done?” she knowingly asked.

  Luthor glanced up at the woman. “Yes, right about at that moment.”

  He stood impassively and glanced down at the note once more, as Mattie waited impatiently at the table. He bit his lip as his finger hovered at the edge of the seal. It seemed like a great leap of faith, as though he wouldn’t understand the implications of what he’d done until he finally broke the seal.

  “Will you be keeping me in suspense all day?” she asked brusquely. “At some point I’ll have to excuse myself to use the loo, but I don’t want to miss something important.”

  Luthor glanced toward her derisively over the top rim of his glasses. Without a curt reply, he slipped his finger beneath the seal and broke through the wax. Unfolding the letter, he read the short note.

  “The Grand Inquisitor is requesting an update on Simon’s investigation into the murders,” Luthor dryly explained.

  Mattie set down her teacup and crossed her arms over her chest. “Clearly they don’t know about Veronica as of yet.”

  “Clearly.”

  “They’re expecting a response from Simon. You’ll have to take the letter to him and explain your interference.”

  Luthor arched an eyebrow. “Are you mad? I’d rather swallow a hot coal than admit I intercepted a letter meant for him and opened it, all the while as he was recovering from so grievous an event.”

  Mattie lifted her napkin from her lap and dabbed the corners of her mouth. “What’s the alternative?”

  Luthor set the letter on the table as a faint smile spread across his lips. “Magic. It’s always the answer, isn’t it?” He hurried from the room. She could hear him in the study next door, searching furtively through his belongings.

  “It only seems to be the answer when you’re up to no good,” she replied, frowning. She raised her voice to be heard over the din. “Much like the incident with the guard at the hospital. Don’t think I didn’t notice something amiss.”

  “And Detective Sugden,” Luthor called back.

  “You magicked the detective?” she replied in disbelief. “Are you mad?”

  “No,” Luthor replied as he walked proudly back into the room, a quill and sheet of parchment held in one hand and an inkwell in the other, “but he will be next time we meet.”

  “You seem to be taking this all in stride.”

  “Mattie, my love, I have more things to worry about than I currently know what to do with. I take each problem as they arise and don’t concern myself with the others until they become a bit more pertinent.”

  She pushed back her chair and stood, collecting the empty plates from the table. Stacking them, she carried the dishes into the kitchen. “That’s an absolutely awful way to go through life.”

  “The doily, too, if you please,” was his only reply.

  She walked back into the room and pulled aside the lace doily, leaving him a clear spot on which to work. He laid the parchment on the table before him, smoothing the corners until it stopped trying to curl on the edges. Holding the quill between the fingers of his right hand, Luthor drew a nearly invisible rune onto the narrow rachis. Burning red, it smoldered on the quill even as Luthor held the writing instrument aloft once more. He dipped the quill into the ink and began writing, muttering to himself as he did so.

  “Dear Grand Inquisitor,” he said, echoing the words he wrote on the page. “My investigation goes well. My collaboration with the local constabulary has produced numerous pieces of evidence, the most important of which I pursue even now.”

  Mattie glanced over his shoulder, and her eyes widened in surprise. She had seen Luthor’s more sprawling script but what she saw produced on the page looked nothing like his handwriting. Instead, she saw tight and succinct writing, each letter meticulously drawn. She had, likewise, seen that handwriting before. The writing on the page clearly belonged to Simon, though it came from Luthor’s hand.

  “How are you—?”

  “Magic, my dear,” he said. The quill wrote those very words onto the page, and Luthor scowled. “Erase that, damn you!” The words vanished, evaporating into the air. Looking up apologetically, he offered no other response before turning his attention back to the page.

  Luthor continued the letter until it was complete, including a very c
onvincing signature at the bottom, clearly belonging to the Inquisitor. The apothecary leaned back in satisfaction and examined his handiwork as he allowed the ink to dry.

  “That’s very impressive,” she said.

  “It won’t fool them for long, unfortunately,” Luthor replied, shaking his head. “Eventually Simon and the Grand Inquisitor will speak once more, and the deception will be revealed. This will hopefully satisfy the Inquisitors long enough for us to solve these murders.”

  “How, if I may ask? Simon is an integral part of our investigation, but he won’t answer his door.”

  Luthor shrugged. “Then I’ll knock until I become so bothersome he’ll have no choice but to let me in.”

  “Sorry for being a naysayer, but what if that fails as well?” she asked.

  “Then we’ll have to solve this crime in spite of the Inquisitor.”

  “They’ll be expecting an active investigation,” Mattie exclaimed as Luthor folded the letter and handed it to her. “Regardless of what your forged letter reads, there is no active investigation.”

  “Not yet,” Luthor explained, “but there will be. The first step will be you delivering that letter to a courier and ensuring it gets into the hands of the Grand Inquisitor. I’d rather trust you to take it directly yourself, but I dare not leave you alone in the Grand Hall.”

  “I appreciate your concern and application of common sense, not that I have any urge to step foot into that building again. While I’m busy delivering messages, what shall you do?”

  Luthor straightened his tie and adjusted the shoulders of his suit jacket. “Isn’t it readily apparent? I’m going to go see Simon and ensure we didn’t outright lie in that letter.”

  Mattie pursed her lips, cringing slightly at the strain on her healing split lip. “Good luck, Luthor. You’ll need it.”

  Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek, avoiding the myriad of injuries on her face. She turned abruptly and hurried from the townhouse, eager to have her part of the plan completed as quickly as possible. In contrast, Luthor followed her slowly out the door, taking the time to close it completely behind him. As much as she dreaded being anywhere close to the Grand Hall, he dreaded trying to convince Simon to forget his morose self-deprecation and rejoin their investigation. It was an uphill battle, the apothecary knew, like trying to carry a drunken man up a flight of stairs. Everything about his task seemed like an uphill battle, in which the simplest of tasks would be the deadweight he was trying to maneuver up the stairwell.